


Redemption

by Minim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Gen, Hurt, Quest, Violence, War, archers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minim/pseuds/Minim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1356. The Hundred Years War has been in progress for 20 years already. King Edward III of England is fighting King John II of France to retain his lands in the French region of Aquitane.  The Black Prince is burning his way through the region, always staying a few steps ahead of John’s army.</p>
<p>In this dangerous time, Dean and Sam are commoners, archers, in the service of the Bishop of Winchester. When Dean makes a terrible mistake, instead of being executed, he's offered a chance at redemption. Edward’s divine right to rule needs to be established beyond doubt and deep in the French countryside there is hidden an artefact that could do just that. </p>
<p>Castiel is the sub prior of the order of monks tasked with the protection of a priceless religious artefact. He’s been increasingly aware of a growing threat to the artefact’s safety. When it becomes clear that its location is no longer hidden he takes it and flees. With many people eager to get their hands on the artefact, it’s only a matter of time before he gets caught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A mistake

**Author's Note:**

> While I am drawing on historical events to shape the backdrop of this story I am also heavily editing them to suit my purposes. For example, in this chapter I say that Thomas de Beauchamp had no sons, only daughters. He actually had five sons. This is NOT intended to be an accurate representation of the events of The Hundred Years’ War or of any of the historical figures named.

People said that the Bishop of Winchester, a man called William Edington, was the only man standing between England and bankruptcy. Edward III spent wildly on wars in France and lived lavishly. Edington’s ability to find funding for both was considered a miracle by some and witchcraft by others. There was no way, some people whispered, that any one man could squeeze so much money out of the country without having struck some kind of deal with the devil. The opinion of the commentator was often dependent on how heavily their lands were being taxed. The King and his court lived in luxury while the belts of the rest of the country were being tightened. Thankfully, Edward’s rule was absolute and whilst the people might grumble amongst themselves, not one man would dare to speak openly against him. The Bishop of Winchester was in favour and that was that.

Dean didn’t have much of an opinion on the topic, but one thing was certain, he was sick and tired of the jibes directed at him and the rest of the Bishop’s men as they drank in the ale house of an evening. He had never subscribed to the idea that men of their rank were complicit in the policies of their masters. Dean and his fellows were responsible for protecting the Bishop’s property and for representing him when the King called for soldiers. The vast majority of them didn’t even know what it was that the Bishop did. As a result, Dean did not appreciate it when charges of exploitation were placed before them as though they actually had a hand in deciding how much tax the great Lords of England had to pay. None would dare speak against the Bishop in the King’s presence, but you weren’t ever going to see the King at The Bell Inn. 

The Bell Inn was the roughest ale house in all of Westminster. It was hidden half way down an alley so narrow that most passers-by would never know that it existed. Of those passers-by that noticed its existence, very few would ever have been foolhardy enough to venture into that deep darkness. The Bishop of Winchester’s men drank there because it was cheap and because they were amongst the roughest men kept around court to do their masters bidding. All the other soldiers, men at arms and miscellaneous folk who drank there did so because the inn keepers many ‘daughters’ were considered the most attractive north of the river. And the cleanest. 

Dean, his brother Sam, and some of the other men serving as longbow men for the Bishop were sitting in their customary corner of the long, low, smoke filled room which made up the main part of the Bell Inn. The fire in the squat fireplace that was carved into the wall furthest from the door had been built too high and, consequently, choked dark smoke into the room, adding to the suffocating atmosphere produced by too many unwashed bodies crammed into a small space. The Bishop’s men sat around a rough wooden table that they had drawn up against the wall, nursing their drinks carefully and, despite the animated chatter and harsh laughter issuing from the group, kept a careful eye on the other guests. 

Dean was sitting morosely on the edge of the group, glaring down at the table, mind occupied when a loud exclamation drew him back into the general conversation.

“A ghost?” one man was saying incredulously. He was a thin man with a hooked nose; pock scarred skin and wild eyes. His name was Peter and he was a convicted murderer who had escaped execution purely because the Bishop had seen the bodies of his victims laid out. Good archers were hard to come by and Peter’s victims had been shot cleanly and with unmistakable skill. 

Sam nodded vigorously. “I’m telling you, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“You expect us,” Peter waved an arm to include the whole group in his statement, “to believe that there are ghosts, spirits, in the cathedral just waiting to be seen by the likes of you.”

“The cathedral’s hallowed ground,” Bobby, a bear of a man with a chest so broad he had the width of two men, put in. “How can a spirit not be at rest on hallowed ground?” he demanded. 

Sam shrugged, “That’s a question for the priests. I’m just telling you what I saw.”

“What were you doing in the cathedral anyway?” Dean asked, pointedly.

“Praying,” Sam replied, without missing a beat. 

This declaration was met by general laughter.

“Praying?” Dean scoffed, “You’re as godless as the rest of us, don’t pretend you’re not.”

The laughter that greeted this statement was a little grimmer. Several hands around the circle travelled to crosses hanging below tunics or to tokens, saints bones and the like, worn in pouches at the hip. Every man there knew himself to be a sinner a hundred times over and none of them were diligent in their observance of the faith, but to state the fact so recklessly was still a little uncomfortable. Each and every one of them wanted to believe that when the priests asked them to kneel before battle and told them that God would forgive all the wrong they did that day if their Lord won the field, that Priest really had the power to grant them passage to heaven. As one of them had pragmatically observed, their lives on earth were a dark enough hell. If there was even a chance for them to pass to something better when the time came to enter into eternity they had to make the most of that chance. So they would rather that those such as Dean would considered themselves eternally cursed didn’t ruin that illusion for the rest of them. 

Sam, however, didn’t waver at the laughter, “I’ve decided I want to make a fresh start, live a more holy life. Show Our Lord proper devotion.”

Silence fell around the table as the men exchanged glances with each other. Dean managed to keep a straight face until his eyes fell on Peter who was trying desperately to contort his grotesque features into something approaching respectful devotion and then he burst out laughing. That was the trigger for everyone else and they all collapsed. The thoughts of eternal damnation that had crept into their minds moments earlier were thoroughly banished by the suggestion that someone like Sam could lead a holy life. 

Even Sam gave a short laugh, “Ok, Ok. Laugh if you want to. But…”

What Sam would have said was lost as the door to the inn was thrown open violently and a group of already drunk men stumbled through into the room. Dean recognised them instantly, everyone did, their livery was unmistakable: a scarlet background with gold crosses. They were Warwick’s men. Thomas de Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick, was a Marshall of England, High Sheriff of several counties and a man with the ear of both the King and the King’s son, The Black Prince. He had hundreds of loyal followers and his retainers were famous for their arrogance and brutality. 

The change in the atmosphere of the room was instantaneous. Groups turned in on themselves a little more, no one looked at the new comers, hands travelled to hilts of swords and daggers just to comfort the owner with the knowledge that their weapons were still within reach. Dean shifted in his seat slightly and felt the comforting weight of his weapons against his legs. He didn’t need to reach for them; he knew instinctively where their hilts were. 

The leader of the men was a stout dark haired young man. He had a handsome face, a smile full of careless arrogance and his eyes glittered like dark stones in the candlelight. He strode confidently into the centre of the room and looked around. His followers hung back, jostling each other and laughing at the crass jokes that they shouted to each other, accompanied with a pantomime of discretion. 

It was Sam that drew the man’s attention to them. It wasn’t his fault. Sam was huge. He was taller than any other man in the room with the well-developed chest and arm muscles and solid build that were the result of a lifetime of archery training. He had the body of a man but his face still held the soft features of childhood. He had a wide innocent smile, long floppy hair and the tell-tale awkwardness of the young. He was 18 and he was all that Dean had left in terms of family. The smile of his broken off statement was still dying on his face and he didn’t look away quickly enough. Dean saw Warwick’s man’s eyes lock onto him and stiffened. 

The man gave a short nod. The bulk of his men peeled away, in search of drink and women. Flanked by two thuggish men with lurid scars and jagged yellowed teeth which gave them an ogre like appearance, the man approached. He pulled up a spare chair and forced his way into their group. He looked around at the closed off faces and grinned.

“You’re the Bishop of Winchester’s men?” he said. It was phrased as a question but it was more of a statement. Considering that some of them were wearing Winchester livery, the five castles and the golden lions, it would have been a foolish man who didn’t know who they were. 

None the less, Dean nodded, “What of it?” he asked bluntly.

The intruding man’s smile widened at the aggressive tone. Dean was playing right into his hands. He wanted to antagonise someone, he wanted to start a fight and Dean was giving him reason to. Dean knew that, he wasn’t stupid, but he would do anything to make sure that Sam wasn’t the target. Sam was a fighter and he could take on anyone with relative ease, but he also had a good natured disposition that meant that he was sometimes a little behind when it came to going on the offensive. When you were dealing with the Earl of Warwick’s men, you couldn’t afford to be behind.

“Nothing. Just surprised you boys are drinking in a place like this.”

Peter grunted and spat onto the rushes that covered the floor. Bobby flexed his arm muscles menacingly. Expressions all-round the table darkened. Except Sam, Sam’s face retained its youthful innocence as he watched.

“Yeah?” Dean didn’t back off, “Why’s that?”

“Is it true, what people say, that the crown isn’t in debt at all and the Bishop keeps the taxes for himself?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Dean flatly. “He doesn’t share court business with us.”

“Oh come on! They say you live like kings!”

Peter scoffed and spread his arms to display his worn tunic, patched in many places and covered in stains. 

Dean laughed and took a deep drink from his mug of cheap ale. His moment of relaxation released some of the tension from the group and there was some muted laughter. Snatches of stories emerged. 

“Do you remember when we were shooting the same arrows for a week…?”

“King’s don’t live on acorn stew for three weeks marching through Brittany.”

“I bet the king doesn’t share a bed with a bear who snores fit to wake the dead.”

“Don’t exaggerate!”

Warwick’s man wasn’t ready to relinquish his control of the conversation yet. He cracked his knuckles and scowled. “How does he afford to keep so many men?” he demanded. “Winchester’s men are everywhere. They’re like a plague.”

“The King’s at war in France and you’re actually asking how one of his most trusted advisers is keeping a lot of men?” Dean asked. “If you can’t figure that one out then you’re stupider than you look.”

Warwick’s man’s face turned an ugly pink colour as he flushed with anger at the calm insult. “You question my intelligence sir?” he asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Dean replied, setting his mug down and leaning towards him. “Now, why don’t you fuck off and leave us in peace?”

It was essentially asking for trouble but Dean wasn’t in any mood to field insults against his Lord that evening. He wasn’t overly sentimental but he was loyal and the Bishop of Winchester was the only reason why he and Sam hadn’t starved to death in some backwater village. He knew that the Bishop wasn’t doing anything underhand. The Bishop had many flaws and had committed many sins but he wouldn’t dare embezzle money from England’s host of hostile, blood thirsty noblemen. Only a stupid man would do that and the Bishop wasn’t stupid. He was a man high in the King’s favour and he wanted to stay that way, antagonising the nobles was not going to help him there. 

Of course, some nobles were antagonised regardless. The Earl of Warwick was one of those. He was high in the King’s favour too and staying at the top was a careful balancing act, you didn’t want anyone else to start outshining you. Discrediting your opposition was a key tactic and that was exactly what a lot of men like Warwick were trying to do to the Bishop of Winchester. 

Warwick’s man had turned an alarming shade of purple at Dean’s declaration. With clenched fists and an expression like thunder he stood carefully. He looked for a moment like he was going to walk away reasonably peacefully, then he spun at the last moment and punched Dean full in the face. Dean saw the blow coming and managed to move his head to one side so the man’s fist only caught him on the cheek. Still, the blow was enough to throw him from his seat and he hit the floor hard. As he pushed himself up again, he had the pleasure of realising that around him, like a storm unleashed, the world was being torn apart. 

Sam had launched himself straight at the man who had attacked his brother but had been intercepted by his ogre like companion. The two were now grappling in a sort of grotesque parody of a hug. Seeing the commotion begin, men in Warwick’s livery had appeared from all corners of the inn and launched themselves at the smaller group surrounding Dean. All around him men were engaged in the business of fighting. They weren’t overly noisy about it, these were professionals after all. Fists and feet were employed harshly and efficiently. Men grunted as blows found their marks. There was the odd suppressed cry of pain and the crash of furniture as chairs and tables were overturned. 

Dean pushed himself to his feet and turned back to face the man who had hit him. He formed his own fist as he turned and the first punch that he threw landed with the full face of his body weight behind it, driving into the man’s stomach. The swift retaliation took the man by surprise and his body turned inward. Dean took advantage of this and brought his elbow down onto the back of the man’s neck, throwing him to the floor, stunned. 

Standing over his opponent, Dean realised that had the man not been so drunk and complacent he would not have found the fight so easy. Archers were rough men and not harmless by any means but they were not trained in close combat. If you were worth the wages you were paid an enemy would never get close enough for you to need to fight them hand to hand. Like all archers Dean was not noble born and had a misspent youth brawling in villages and towns throughout the country to draw on in this situation but no formal training. Had Warwick’s man thought to draw his sword Dean had little doubt that he would now be lying dead on the floor. Parrying with eating knifes and farmer’s tools was one thing. Going up against a man who had trained with a sword since the age of 10 was an entirely different proposition.

That was the primary thought in Dean’s mind as he knelt down, grabbed the man by the hair and pulled his head up while simultaneously pulling from his belt the narrow dagger he wore there. In one smooth motion he brought the knife up and slid it expertly into the man’s eye, pushing hard to force the knife to travel back into the brain. Death was assured and Dean held the body tight as it twitched and convulsed in the last seconds of life. The man didn’t even have time to cry out before he went limp. If Dean had learnt one thing in his short and bloody life it was that the only opponent that couldn’t cause you further trouble was a dead opponent. There was nothing to be gained by showing mercy. Dean pulled the knife back, let the body drop, looked up, met Bobby’s eyes and realised that something was horribly wrong. 

Bobby was nearly fifty and one of the most experienced soldiers in Dean’s unit of archers. He had been fighting for various Lord’s since he was fourteen years old and he was as hardened and grizzled an old man as could be found anywhere. Therefore, the horror that Dean saw on his face was totally out of place. A man like Bobby should have found the sight of a dead man in a tavern brawl so routine it was barely worth acknowledging. 

Bobby darted forward, pushing aside a man in Warwick livery that tried to attack him like a horse brushing aside a fly. He grabbed Dean’s arm and dragged him to the door.

“Move, move, move,” he muttered urgently into Dean’s ear, pushing him out through the door into the night.

“What…?”

“Shut up,” Bobby growled, holding Dean’s arm in a vice like grip as he pulled him along. Dean knew the streets well enough to know that Bobby was pulling him away from the direct route back to the lodgings used by the Bishop of Winchester’s dedicated archers. As they blundered along through the darkness that was illuminated only by the light of the moon and the stars and the occasional sliver of candle light that escaped through shutters Dean struggled to keep his footing. His leather shoes slipped on slick mud and stone made treacherous by a mixture of water, blood from the towns butchers and the waste that mingled in the streets. His mind grabbed hastily at landmarks as he tried to keep track of the winding route on which he was being led. Eventually it became clear that they were taking the most roundabout route back to the lodgings as they could, a route that doubled back on itself and twisted round and would eventually take them to the seldom used back entrance. It was seldom used because to reach it you had to cross one of the town drains that channelled the filth and rainwater of the inner town out into the sewage filled river that encircled it. That night, Dean hardly noticed the stench he was so caught up in confusion over Bobby’s odd behaviour.

“Sam…” Dean started. His last impressions of the fight was that his brother and their friends had been holding their own and he well knew that once it was realised that a death had occurred, the trouble would melt away as quickly as it appeared and the inn would empty. Logically, Dean knew that there was little to no reason why Sam would be in trouble but, Dean never had been logical where keeping Sam safe was concerned. 

Bobby well knew this, so instead of simply telling Dean to shut up again he ground out, “Sam’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

Their hurried journey came to an abrupt end as they entered the lodgings via a heavy wooden gate that took them into a small square courtyard. On one side there were stables which housed horses. On the remaining three sides the two storey wooden building rose up imposingly. Opposite where they entered, and lit by the lanterns held by the watchmen, there was the main gate which was made of heavy oak and studded imposingly with heavy metal nails. Nails were expensive and hard to make. They were the only sign that this building housed the servants of a wealthy man. 

Safely inside, Bobby released Dean’s arm and beckoning him to follow, disappeared up the narrow wooden staircase that lead to the building’s main hall. Rubbing his arm a little theatrically, Dean followed.

The hall was the main hub of the building and occupied the main part of the space. It was where they ate, slept and socialised during the day. It was warmed by a large fire in the middle of the room and lit by high windows on both sides that were covered over with stiff linen cloth to keep out the worst of the weather. From this hall it was possible to access several smaller chambers. Some of these functioned as guest rooms for the rare eventuality that a person of high rank would wish to sleep there while others acted as meeting spaces where more private discussions could be held. 

It was late, so the floor was already covered in the sleeping bodies of those who had not chosen to go to the tavern that evening. Bobby weaved his way through the bodies, navigating by the light of a small stub of candle that he had lit by the door. Dean followed close at hand so that he wouldn’t accidentally step on someone and start another fight. A night’s sleep in the hall was seldom undisturbed with people passing in and out at all hours, sometimes bringing in companions and mostly folks were understanding if you woke them. However, the closer you to got to the top of the hall and the higher ranked members of the company the more likely someone would be to take exception to being disturbed by someone as lowly as Dean.

It was to one of the small chambers branching off from the top of main hall that Bobby took them. Dean entered with a slight sense of trepidation. These were meeting rooms and it was not often that he was invited into rooms like this and it made him nervous to be there. He was profoundly aware that some of the furniture, the ornately carved table and the iron bound strong box to name but two items, were worth significantly more than his life. Bobby seemed unconcerned by this fact and, leaning against the table, crossed his arms and fixed Dean with a penetrating stare. He didn’t speak for a few moments.

“Bobby what the hell…”

“How could you be so stupid!” Bobby exclaimed angrily.

Dean frowned, “Stupid? The guy could have killed me, he could have killed Sam, he…”

“He didn’t even draw his sword!”

“Yeah ‘cause he was too drunk to remember he had it. How long do you think that was gonna last?”

“You didn’t have to kill him,” Bobby growled.

“Bobby, what’s the big deal? He’s just some guy dead in a bar fight. No one will even care. There’s a million more men like him.”

This was true. Men died. They died in fights, they died in accidents, they died in war. Dean had been perfectly justified in what he did. He had been attacked and he had defended himself. There wasn’t a magistrate in the land who would convict him of any crime. Especially not considering that the man he had killed was just a soldier, a hired hand. Men like them, their lives weren’t worth a thing. Their lives were owned by their lord and to kill a lord’s sworn servant was more a crime of property than it was anything else. The Earl of Warwick would probably never hear of the incident. One of his commanders or captains might be notified that there was a gap in the ranks, he might not, either way the gap would soon be filled and the whole affair would be a minor inconvenience to a person of no great importance, nothing more. Unless, well…unless there was a reason why this particular man’s life might be worth something.

“Bobby…what do you know that I don’t?”

Bobby sighed grimly, “Who do you think that man was?”

“One of Warwick’s men. I’m not blind, I can recognise the livery.”

Bobby made an impatient noise, “No you idiot. What was his name?”

Dean shrugged, mystified by the question. What was in a man’s name? Low ranking men all had the same names. That was why men were distinguished by profession or position. A village might have seven or eight men called William and so one would be William Thatcher, another William James son, another William Butcher, another known simply as Big William. Outside your village your name meant very little to anyone. The only people whose names really mattered were the nobility. Dean was starting to feel a little cold. 

“His name was Henry Fitz Thomas,” Bobby said.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Dean asked impatiently and with a certain amount of bravado.

“It should!”

“Bobby…” 

“Dean, that man was the Earl of Warwick’s bastard son.”

Dean’s heart sank. Bastards were a tricky issue. Mostly they just represented two inconvenient truths. Firstly that pleasure had unwanted side effects and secondly that the holy act of marriage was anything buy holy. If the father of the bastard was of love rank and had no wealth the child would be cast out. Unless they were needed to help in the family business. If the father of the bastard was wealthy and charitably inclined he would provide for the child. For daughters this often meant placing them in holy orders. For sons this was often the case as well. It was difficult to do harms from behind the walls of a cloister. Other sons might find themselves apprenticed into a trade or secured in a minor role as a page or something similar in a noble household. The luckiest might find themselves squires to low ranking landless knights. The understanding was that children thus provisioned could make no further claims on their wealthy parent. 

As a rule, fathers did not care for their bastards. There was one exception to this and that was when the father was a man of noble rank in need of a succession with no legitimate heirs. In that situation, a man might remain involved in the life of his child with the view that if his true wife failed to produce an heir he could eventually settle his estates upon his bastard. In that case, a bastard son would often be afforded similar status and privilege to that of a legitimate child.

In his mind Dean quickly ran through his knowledge of England’s noble families and was forced to come to a disturbing conclusion.

“Warwick doesn’t have any sons does he?”

“He is the proud father of six daughters,” said Bobby, sarcastically. “Oh, and he has a son. Or at least he did until an hour ago.”

“Shit.” It was the only thing Dean could think to say.

“Exactly,” Bobby said, still glowering at Dean. “It’s a couple of hours until dawn,” he said. “You’d better try and get some sleep and hope no one comes for you before we can get to talk to the Bishop.”


	2. Second Chances

“Oh Dean. How many times am I going to have to save you?” asked William Edington, his holiness the Bishop of Winchester, with a theatrical sadness that was probably also partially genuine. 

Dean had woken at first light to the sight of Bobby’s grim face looming over head. He had untangled himself from the rough blanket he had rolled himself in to sleep and gone in search of Sam. Small boys were clambering up to the windows to take down the linen blinds and let in the cool morning air and the thin watery light, some of the archer’s women were crouched around the fire at the centre of the room, stoking it back into life and starting to cook bits of breakfast. Some men were already up and striding out to train or run errands or attend to other business. Others were sitting on long benches around the edges of the hall mending bits of kit, talking in muted voices and chewing on lumps of bread. Then there were those still sleeping with their blankets pulled firmly over their heads and ignoring the activity around them. 

Sam was in this latter category. Dean had found him in the shadows by the door. He saw Peter and others lying nearby. Some of their faces bore the signs of violence. He had stooped and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Sam had been awaken in an instant and responded without question to the terse instruction to get ready to go out. They had explained the situation briefly as they strode through the streets to the palace of Westminster where their Lord had his primary chambers. 

Gaining access to the palace was simpler than most common folk imagined. Dressed in their Winchester livery, scruffy though they were, they were barely afforded a second glance by the palace guards. Gaining an audience with the Bishop was also relatively simple. Dean was not an unfamiliar face to the Bishops personal guard. 

Now, Dean stood before his Lord who had just been informed of the situation in short practical language by Bobby. They had found the Bishop breaking his fast amongst a stack of official papers, still in his ceremonial robes. The King must have heard mass early that day. He had listened to Bobby’s story whilst reading one of his letters and had given no reaction until he had finished with it and scribbled down a note on a piece of paper. 

How many times the Bishop going to have to save Dean? It was an uncomfortable question and Dean didn’t have a ready answer.

The fact was that Dean’s journey towards being a part of the Bishop’s household had been unconventional to say the least and it had aroused questions that no one was, as yet, prepared to give him answers to. 

Dean had been 13 and Sam only 9 when their father, John, had died in a drunken brawl in a tavern in the market town 10 miles from their village home. The whole family had been labourers. They worked on the land belonging to others because they didn’t own any themselves. In this way they were able to afford to live in meagre one room shacks , often hastily constructed by Sam and Dean themselves. They had never managed to stay in one place long. John’s weakness for drink and love of fighting had seen them driven from nearly anywhere that they settled within months. 

Dean never got the full details of what had happened to his father. His body had lain in a ditch on the edge of the town for several days before it was brought home to them by the village’s baker who had also been at market. He had heard vague stories about knives in the dark, money owed and games of cards. The same old story. The money that had been in John’s pockets was all gone and the boys were penniless. 

Whilst people had been willing to hire the three of them to work, John was a strong man beside the drink and Dean, though not yet full grown, was solidly built and a good worker, they were less willing to hire Dean when he came with Sam. At 9, Sam was still too young to do a full days work. Why hire two half grown boys when you could hire two men? The land owners asked. There were plenty of men. No one was willing to hire them. 

Desperation had forced them onto the road. They had moved steadily in the direction of the market town where their father had died. Once there, Dean had kept starvation at bay by taking on any odd job that he could. He hung around in the yards of the inns and held the heads of horses for the odd coin or scrap that might be thrown his way. He loitered around the market in the hope that he would be asked to take a message. Sometimes, he had to resort to stealing from the stalls. He only did this on the days when Sam lay limp and quiet on whatever patch of straw they had made their bed on and made no effort to follow Dean out. The days when the fear that death was close grew so great that Dean was willing to risk having his hand cut off. 

It was on a day such like that that a man had rode into town and started asking questions about a man known as John Hunter, husband of Mary of Winchester, and his sons. As luck would have it, the inn where the stranger chose to stable his horse and lay his head was the same inn where John had died. It was also lucky that it was an inn where Dean had spent many long hours loitering desperately for work and as such the owners knew him and something of his story. Further, it was lucky that on that particular day when the man started asking questions at that particular inn, the landlord had tossed Dean a pitchfork and told him that the boy who normally saw to the stables hadn’t turned up that morning. If Dean wanted supper he could take the job for the day. 

The man had told the boys that if they were who they said they were and could present themselves to him at Winchester, a town some 30 miles distant, it would be to their benefit. The journey had almost killed them, but it had simultaneously saved them. Now though, that salvation was looking in doubt. 

William sighed and wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief. “Warwick, is a very hard man,” he said. “A harder man than I can manage. Should he ask for satisfaction in this matter I have not the power to deny it to him.”

“I didn’t know who he was,” said Dean, a little sullenly. 

“Understandable. Who would expect the child of one of England’s greatest Lord’s to be tarrying in London’s back passages? Unfortunately, such places have ever held a fascination for young men who should know better be they of noble birth or not.” 

It was impossible to miss the intent behind that comment and Sam flushed noticeably. Dean was not so easily shamed. 

William picked up another of the letters on the desk, read it quickly, scribbled another note and discarded it. 

“It was self-defence. He came in there looking for a fight.” 

“They always do,” said William with infuriating calm. 

Another letter, another note. Dean could feel frustration rising and pushed it down. He had the distinct impression that the Bishop was trying to make it clear exactly how unimportant the likes of Dean were. 

“If he wants satisfaction I wish we could get it over with,” Dean said as the pause stretched on.

William put down the letter he was reading. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. He looked Dean up and down for a few moments. “Tell me, Dean, what do you think of the divine right of kings?”

Dean stared at him, utterly confused by the change in the conversation.

“That is…”

“A King’s power comes from God. He has been chosen by God to rule,” Sam interrupted and then, realising where they were and what they were doing, started to stammer out an apology.

His apologies were stopped by a briefly raised hand. “Precisely. Still want to be a priest Sam?”

“I just want to be learned. I want to study,” Sam muttered. Dean knew it was his brothers dearest wish, he also knew that it was impossible for men of their standing. Sam couldn’t even hope for the bare level education necessary for a backwater parish priest. 

“A noble aim,” said William earnestly. He turned his attention back to Dean. “What of it then?”

“God has power over everything. The King is king by God’s good will,” Dean said. 

It was the most conventional of answers and it was greeted with a slow nod. “And what would you say if it were suggested that our good King Edward was a pretender and that there were others who by their lineage are God’s true choice to be the King of England? If it were suggested that by allowing Edward to remain on the throne we are going against the will of God and are all traitors?”

Internally, Dean thought that anyone who suggested that likely did not truly believe in the divine right of kings themselves and was mostly interested in making their desires sound like God’s word. However, he didn’t think that was the best answer so he simply said, “God doesn’t make mistakes.”

William laughed. “Loyalty! A useful trait. And prudent. An equally useful trait.” He leant forward and planted his elbows on the desk so that he could rest his chin on clasped hands so as to peer at Dean more closely. “I’ll tell you what I think,” he said. “I think you’re a useful man Dean. What age are you now?”

“Twenty two.”

“Twenty two!” William nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you why I think you’re a useful man. I think you’re clever. Cleverer than you seen and clever enough not to let anyone know that you are. I think you’re a man who can get things done and who isn’t going to balk when it takes unpleasantness to do it. There are a lot of men that you might say have either of those two qualities but it is a rarer thing to find a man who has both and the muscle to give backing to the second. It is even rarer to find a man who combines those qualities and still retains a certain innocence about the world.”

William smiled as Dean’s expression took on a slightly offended quality. “Innocence or lack thereof is not defined by how many men you’ve killed or how often you’ve had to steal to survive or how often you’ve starved or been beaten,” he explained. “You’ve served my loyally for almost ten years now and I suspect you no more understand how the country is run now than you did when you were sleeping on a pile of straw in some god forsaken parish where they don’t even know what direction to turn to walk to London. You’re innocent. You haven’t become corrupted by all the filth that surrounds this court. You’re not following court gossip. You don’t know that the king is bedding the Earl of Northampton’s daughter and that there is great anger at the honours her father is receiving as a result and furthermore,” William emphasised this point with a sharply pointed finger, “you don’t care. It’s nothing to you. Were you the King’s servant you would not be turned from your loyalty to him regardless of the gossip.”

“I am the King’s servant…” said Dean uncertainly. 

“My servant first and foremost I hope,” said William.

Dean could have kicked himself. “Of course,” he said, dipping his head.

“But you are right. We are all the King’s servants. The King has need of his servants in these hard times,” William leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and sat quietly for a few moments. He surveyed the three men in front of them. “Bobby,” he said, with a smile. “Loyal servant as you are I do not think that you can help us on this occasion. Would you leave us? Rest assured. I have a solution to our problem in mind.”

Bobby didn’t protest. He made an awkward bow and left the room. 

William stood and stepped over to the window, peering out into the gardens below. “The Earl of Warwick can only persecute you if you are on English soil. I have no doubt that I will have him demanding I hand you over as soon as he discovers the truth of the events of last night. I suggest you be well on your way to leaving the country when he does.” He turned away from the window. “There is something that the King desires. Something precious. Something that would secure his rule beyond all doubt.”

“Why doesn’t he take it?” Sam asked, mystified. Now that Bobby had left, Sam had sensed that this was no longer a conversation just about Dean. It included him as well and he no longer felt obligated to be silent. 

“He would. If he could. And believe me he is trying. Why do you think he has consented to allow his son to roam so wildly through the French countryside?”

“So it’s in France,” said Dean. “This thing.”

“Precisely. It is the crown of thorns that Jesus wore upon the cross. It was cast in gold upon his death and it was ever the most Holy Relic of the Kings of France. Until they lost it.” William toyed idly with the gold chain he wore around his neck as he recited the story. “Over 200 years ago now, there was a young priest who acted as confessor to a noble woman at court. Some accounts say she was the King’s mistress. Regardless, the priest became convinced that the King was not worthy of possessing so holy a relic and he took it and sent it, in the hands of the monk, to Rome to be held by the Pope until such a time as the kings of France would be worthy of holding it.”

“It never made it,” Sam guessed.

“Quite right Sam. The loss was discovered; the priest arrested and executed for treason after being tortured into confession what he had done. Despite the kings best efforts no trace of the monk nor the crown was ever found. For years there have been rumours. For years fakes have been found. None truly believed it would ever come to light.”

“If it ever existed in the first place,” said Dean sceptically. “When the monk realised half the country was after him, he probably dropped it in a ditch.”

“So we all thought. Then one of John’s agents was captured by the Prince’s men. They thought he was a scout attached to some great military force. Turns out he was nothing of the kind. He was on the search for the crown and, with some persuasion, he revealed that John thinks he’s tracked it. He thinks he knows the area where it was last seen and he is sending men to investigate.” William leant his hands on the window sill and spoke with new energy. “John must not be allowed to find it. Such an artefact should be in the hands of Edward. The true King. With it in his possession there are none that can doubt that he is the man ordained by God to rule England and France.”

Dean thought that if the crown was powerful enough to prove that then surely it would be the man who was permitted by God to find the treasure that would be the one ordained to rule England and France. He had never quite understood how the mythical properties of these things were supposed to magically pass through you to the man who paid you, but this was not the time to argue. So he simply asked, “And what has that to do with us?”

“Edward has asked me to secure this item for him through whatever means I feel best. His son is searching, but it is difficult to search when you have an army of thousands. Edward feels that this is a task best accomplished by…less conventional agents. To be more precise, agents like you.”

For the first time since entering his Lordships presence Dean allowed himself to exchange a glance with his brother. He strongly suspected that Sam’s surprised expression was a mirror of his own.

“Us?” he asked incredulously.

“I told you before. You’re a useful man Dean. You and your brother. You need to leave the country and I need a useful man in France. If there’s one thing that Warwick cannot contest it is the King’s business.”

“It’s a better option than being hung for a murderer,” said Sam.

“It’s suicide!” Dean snapped. “You want us, English archers, to wander the French countryside trying to find a lost holy relic with no clues except a general area and the fact that it’s a gold crown? I’ve heard what they do to English archers if they catch them. They cut your fingers off,” he brandished the three calloused fingers that he used to draw back the string of his bow. “Then they castrate you. Then they kill you.”

“We’d at least have a chance,” said Sam. “I don’t want to see you hung Dean.”

“I’m not too interested in that either,” said Dean. He ran a hand through his hair as he tried to think. Really, there was no choice. One avenue lead to certain death the other to near certain death. The advantage of the second was that he would probably get to go down fighting and if he was going to die that was how he wanted to go. 

“Fine,” he said tersely. “We’ll go.”

William smiled and Dean was transported back to the first meeting they ever had. He and Sam had barely made it to Winchester. They had found the house the man had instructed him to. Uncertain of how to gain admittance having never seen a house that grand before, Sam and Dean had huddled by the door. It had been cold and wet and Sam had been barely conscious. 

Once again however, luck was on their side. They would probably have died there if the servant who had rode to the village to give them the message hadn’t come home shortly after they arrived. He had wanted to scare them away but had recognised them. They were brought inside, given a piece of bread each and allowed to sit in the warm kitchen whilst the household bustled on around them. 

That very same evening Dean had been brought in to see William. William had scrutinised him closely. He had gone as far as to take Dean’s chin in his hand, turning his face backwards and forwards to better examine it. Dean had been too tired to protest. Barely audibly William had muttered, “You look far too much like her to tell…”

Dean had barely understood the statement at the time, but since that day he had thought it over often. 

“What can you do?” William had asked him. “What good are you?”

“I can plant and weed a field,” he’d said.

“There are no fields in Winchester,” William had replied.

“I can herd sheep and cattle,” Dean had said.

“We haven’t got many of those either,” had been the response.

Dean had racked his brain, “I can care for horses. Clean a stable. I can help in the kitchen.”

“My kitchens are full and I keep very few horses.”

A stab of anger had driven through Dean at this point. He had forced Sam to walk until his feet bled and his vision blurred. He had taken them far away from all they knew and now, it seemed that there was nothing for them here either. So his next answer had been fuelled by that anger.

“I can shoot a bow,” he said, tilting his chin up. “I’m an archer. And a hunter.”

“You can shoot well?” William had asked. 

“Better than most of the boys in my village. Better than some of the men too.”

William had chuckled at that. “Will you join my archers?” He’d asked. “Serve me as one of my sworn fighting men.”

“Fine,” Dean had said. “We will.”

He had been rewarded with the exact same smile that William had presented him with as he agreed to go to France. There were almost 10 years between those conversations but for a moment it felt like 10 minutes. Again, Dean’s folly had brought them so close to disaster that they had almost tasted death. Perhaps though, with their trip to France, that first meeting had simply delayed the inevitable.

-

“Deus meus, ex toto corde pænitet me ómnium meórum peccatórum,” The familiar words of the act of contrition rolled off Castiel’s tongue, “ éaque detéstor, quia peccándo, non solum pœnas a te iuste statútas proméritus sum, sed præsértim quia offéndi te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super ómnia diligáris. Ídeo fírmiter propóno, adiuvánte grátia tua, de cétero me non peccatúrum peccandíque occasiónes próximas fugitúrum. Amen.” He crossed himself but didn’t rise from his kneeling position in front of the alter of the rough chapel that was all that their humble order had in terms of formalised worship space.

It was a small, square building built from the pale bricks that were the chief building material in the region. The insides were smoothed with a plaster that was cracking in many places. They could not afford tapestries so the walls were crudely painted. Equally, the pews were of a light wood that had been constructed by those who were not masters in the art so they were oddly shaped and not the most stable. Whilst the rocking of the benches sometimes disturbed the services, Castiel felt that this was acceptable as it avoided expenditure. Castiel liked everything that saved the order money. They did not have expensive jewelled crucifixes or other such finery. Everything was made of simple wood. 

Castiel had spent time in large monasteries and in cathedrals, but he had never felt close to God there. Here he felt close to God. In the simplicity of the surroundings. In the hard work on the land and the seclusion of the location in the depths of the woods here it was possible to listen uninterrupted to God’s word. There was no interference. The rest of the world felt very far away. 

At least, it had. Recently there had been rumours. Messages had been sent from other religious houses in the area. Questions were being asked. Questions, all of which pointed to the contents of the small wooden box, responsibility for which had come along with being made Prior of this small community. 

Castiel had never opened that small box nor read the documents related to it. He did not need to in order to guard it. 

But now armies were moving through France. Soldiers had been seen in the woods and danger and unrest were growing in Castiel’s mind. The time for passive guardianship was coming to a close. 

But Castiel wasn’t willing to admit that. Not quite yet. He would wait. Just a little while longer. And while he waited he would pray. Pray that the secret of La maison de l'agneau would last a little while longer.


	3. Across the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t speak Latin, nor am I Catholic, therefore I apologise for any mistakes in any of the representations of Catholic rites (in Latin or English) in this story. I'm mostly relying on google!

Sam and Dean sat in the damp, cheerless corner of an inn on the edge of the docks. They each had a mug of weak ale in front of them, but they hadn’t exchanged a word in over an hour. Wind and rain lashed the outsides of the building and with each gust it was apparent that the place was not entirely weather proof. Wind whistled through gaps and cracks in the wall, reaching out chilly fingers to probe for gaps in clothing so that it might penetrate to the very core of its victims. The fire in the grate spluttered and smoked and struggled to remain alight, but there simply wasn’t enough wood for it to make a real difference. 

The thing was that it was very easy to say that you would go to France: it was a lot harder to make it a reality. It was February, not the ideal time of year to be making sea crossings. The waves were high and there were constant reports of ships being lost to the swells. Most of the captains were staying put and waiting for a gap in the weather. It made no difference that they were on the King’s business with passage arranged for them by the Bishop on an impressive merchant vessel, the captain was not willing to risk his livelihood to speed the passage. 

So they were stuck, waiting for a fair wind to start their travels. It made Dean nervous. He tensed every time he saw anyone in livery with colours similar to Warwick or any of his allies. Essentially that meant that he spent his entire time tense. The colour red was popular and lions were a common symbol. Luckily for Dean it seemed that Warwick was not preparing any of his men to cross the channel and they only saw one person genuinely wearing Warwick’s livery and that was a messenger who they saw speaking to one of the wool traders. 

“We have to get out of here,” Dean said, for what felt like the hundredths time. “We can’t just sit here waiting for Warwick to catch up with us.”

“Calm down Dean. We don’t even know that Warwick is looking for you yet,” said Sam. “What are you going to do anyway? Swim the channel?” 

“It can’t be that far. You can see France on a clear day.”

“Dean, you can’t swim.”

“I’ve never tried. That’s not the same thing.”

Sam gave him his trade mark damning look. “Right.”

“Shut up,” Dean snapped and then attempted to keep glowering as Sam laughed at him. 

Sam’s sunny attitude was the only thing keeping Dean positive at that point. Dean was a natural pessimist whose general outlook for the future contained only pain and suffering. Dean always protested that considering the general state of the world, pain and suffering was the best that anyone could expect and therefore he was only being realistic. He had perfected the art of ignoring the rolling of eyes that generally greeted such a statement. Sam on the other hand was a born optimist. He always saw the best in people and he always had a hundred plans for improving their situation and, if he was given a spare five minutes, the world. Luckily Sam was still practical and he never embarked on a scheme unless it was guaranteed to work. 

A casual observer would have thought that this contrast in outlook was the cause of much conflict between the two. Dean always made a great show of finding Sam’s attitude annoying and he often rejected Sam’s attempts to cheer him up or make him look on the brighter side of things, but ultimately, deep down, Dean was glad of it because without Sam he would have sunk into unbeatable depression years ago. So, even though he glowered and glared as Sam laughed at the image of Dean trying to swim despite not knowing how, Dean’s mood was lifted and by the time they retired to bed that evening he was decidedly more hopeful. A fair day would come soon and they would sail for France.

-

“Deus misereatur nostri et benedicat nobis.” Castiel crossed himself and gave a satisfied sigh as the final prayer of the service was spoken. It was 5am and not yet light outside. The Lauds service was coming to its conclusion and they were declaring, as they did every day, that this was a day dedicated to the Lord’s glory. As always, as silence fell over the group of monks assembled there, Castiel kept his head bowed and so kept them all in a moment of silent contemplation. He sighed again, raised his head and so the men were dismissed. 

Castiel stood slowly and watched them go. Many of them walked quickly and silently away, most of them had chores to complete in the short space of time between the end of Lauds and the start of the morning meal. One or two took a more leisurely pace and spoke in low voices as they left. They were those whose service did not begin until slightly later in the day. Castiel smiled. They were a small community, eighteen men in all, but each and every man was hard working and devoted and worth more, Castiel thought, than idle monks fattened on the riches of the larger monasteries. 

Castiel was extraordinarily young to be in the position of prior. An orphan, given over to the care of the church as a very small child he wasn’t sure of his age, but even the most generous estimate wouldn’t have placed him any older than twenty five and most would happily knock three years off that age. He had been sent to this secluded cell as a boy of around fifteen when he had found the rigours of monastic life most difficult. The prior at that time, Brother Pius, had tamed Castiel’s demons. On his death bed he had spoken to the men and stated that the place needed a young leader and proposed Castiel, then barely eighteen. Backed ably by the deceptively fresh faced Brother Alfred, Castiel had been welcomed into the roll and with the cooperation of those around them La maison de l'agneau, the house of the lamb, had thrived. 

Now, five years on, Castiel said a grace over a table that was well provided with the good plain food that they grew themselves and sat down to conversation that was a curious, but pleasant mix, of the spiritual and the pastoral. Castiel had never seen the merits of silence at meal times.

“Brother Septimus,” Brother Gabriel began, turning to the cells chief record keeper, “have we ever had such a harvest of honey before? The sweetness, the clarity, the quantity…God favoured our bees this summer past.”

This roused a chuckle. Despite retaining a trim physique, Gabriel’s enjoyment of sweet things was well known. It was his greatest temptation he said and it was the thing that featured most highly in his confession.

“It was a significant yield,” said Brother Septimus as the laughter died down. “Though I regret, we have not thought to keep a detailed record of the production of honey.”

“I think it was not the bees that God favoured but our own dear Prior,” said Brother Godwyn, an ancient old man who held the role of treasurer, often joking that the role was synonymous with the sin of idleness as the cell had no treasure. “It is the work of Castiel and Castiel alone that brings us such bounty.”

“Then I am forever indebted to you,” said Gabriel, with an exaggerated bow, “and to God for granting you such skill.”

Castiel smiled. “Your words are kind brothers but I fear that to acknowledge them would bring me to close to the sin of pride. Come my brothers, let us go to work.”

Work was a feature of every monastic institution. The precise character of it varied considerably however. In some houses the work was medicinal, in others academic, many houses brewed ale. In this particular cell the work was that of living. 

They had no fancy buildings. Aside from the rough chapel, they had just two other buildings. One was a kitchen built with a minimal wooden frame and walled with woven branches insulated with a mixture that was best described as mud. It was cheaply built because it was inevitable that your kitchen would catch fire and burn down at some point. As a result, you wanted it to be as cheaply and simply constructed as possible. The second building was a simple, two story, stone hall. The lower level was a storage space where the monks kept their stores of food and other materials. Above it there were only two rooms. The main room was, just as the archer’s hall in Westminster was, an all-purpose room in which they slept and ate. The second, much smaller, room was the Prior’s private chamber. In it were kept the books and the only valuable artefacts held by their cell including the little wooden box.

The men spent the majority of their time either tending to their crops or to the animals that roamed the enclosure at the rear of the property. They spent time in the making of cheese and butter, the carving of wood and the brewing of ale. They produced little more than was necessary for their survival and they were happy in their life of simplicity.   
Castiel’s job involved a little more administration than that of his fellows. Isolated as they were he still received correspondence from the surrounding great houses, particularly the one a few miles to the North of which they were nominally a subset. On this occasion, he elected to leave such duties until later in the day and stepped outside with the rest of the men. He thought he would just step over to see how the felling of a large oak by the road was progressing and as such, he was standing on the path that branched off from the main road that wound through the woods just as the sun reached its proper place in the sky. 

From this vantage point he heard the sound of horse’s hooves rustling through the fallen leaves that lay generally undisturbed upon the path. They were too far distant from the main road to hear anything of travellers there which meant that the traveller must be on the path and heading their way. This was an unheard of event. Messengers from the other monasteries generally came on foot. Castiel peered up at the path but he could see nothing yet. He glanced back to where his men were working and realised that they were so absorbed in their task that they had not heard the approaching hooves. 

Castiel walked up the path so that he would meet the approaching traveller alone.

-

Dean awoke to the shuffling feet of a novice monk moving through the hall to light the candles. It was still dark but religious houses liked to divest themselves of their visitors early. Sam and Dean had not been able to afford to stay in an inn so they had had to take the hospitality of the nearby priory. Religious houses were obligated to give those in need of it a bed for the night and food in the morning. Sam and Dean had been their guests for over a week alongside many others waiting for passage across the channel to become available. 

As he stumbled outside to splash his face in the trough of water provided for washing, Dean was struck by the sudden realisation that it was not reading. He stood in the open and tried to assess the wind. There was a wind, but it was not strong enough that Dean would have not dared shoot in it and if he could shoot an arrow in it then a ship should be able to sail in it he reasoned. 

He hurried back inside to take breakfast from one of the large platters that were being handed around by monks and to get Sam up and moving. If this truly was a window in the weather then no captain would wait for them, passengers paid for by the Bishop or not. 

An hour later the sun had risen and as Castiel was preparing to meet an unknown rider in the woods around a French monastic cell, Sam and Dean climbed aboard a deep hulled merchant vessel that was moments from departure. 

The captain, a man by the name of Walter of Southampton greeted them by spitting on the deck and glowering. He was as rough an old seaman as you could find. His face was deeply scarred and he was missing most of one hand. He said that he had fought so many wars he couldn’t remember in the service of whom he had lost it. He was a cruel, hard, heartless mercenary and his men scuttled around him like frightened rats. 

“Now listen to me my boys,” he said, advancing towards them scratching at his lice infested beard. “Bishops paid me good money to get you two to France, but there aren’t any passengers on board this here ship. You’re going to work and you’re going to work damn hard or I’ll pitch you over board. Lots of men go to France. Most of them never come back. Bishop’s name doesn’t protect you on the seas. That’s where we’re king. Is that understood?”

Dean nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Walter pointed a filthy finger in the direction of a group of boys who were carrying barrels below deck. “Get to work,” he growled.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Dean muttered as they walked away. 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “We can still get off, barter passage on another boat.”

“Barter? With what?” Dean darted a glance over his shoulder and saw that Walter’s eyes were still on them. He motioned to Sam to pick up one end of a hefty box. 

“We’re only on here for two days tops,” said Sam. “It’ll be fine.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Dean’s sense of uneasiness grew every second that they spent on board. The crew were all men cut from the same cloth as Walter. They were filthy, ignorant and dangerous. There were as many nationalities represented as Dean had ever heard of. Men from the German kingdoms, France, Milan and dark skinned men from even further afield. Many of these foreigners were morose individuals who spoke only enough English to be able to understand the commands and weren’t interested in associating with anyone. Dean didn’t worry about them even though he knew that they would slit his throat if they thought he was looking at them wrong. Dean worried about the two or three groups of men who did talk to each other.

These men were primarily French with a few English men mixed in. They wore no tokens but it was clear that they were men loyal to Walter beyond simply being paid to work for him. Sam’s size drew their attention instantly and Dean made a point of sticking close to him to make it clear that they didn’t just have Sam to deal with if they decided to start anything. 

As the day wore on, Sam and Dean were tasked with the coiling of ropes on deck. It was a hard job. The ropes were large and soaked through with freezing sea water as well as being so abrasive that they cut through skin. The salt from the sea water made every cut feel like it was on fire. Coiling them properly was the work of two men and Dean was glad of it because it kept them together and, to a certain extent isolated from the rest of the men. 

Next to them a swarthy French man whose most distinguishing feature was a huge, bulbous nose covered in boils was tarring the ends of cut ropes to prevent them fraying. He darted glances towards them and his expression grew grimmer with each look.

“You are Englishman?” he spat out eventually, explosively, as though the words and the language burned his lips.

The question was directed towards Sam and he responded before Dean could. 

“Yes,” Sam said. Then, because Sam was Sam he added, “From London.”

The man spat angrily and dunked his brush into the bucket of tar so aggressively that some of it spilt on the deck. He cursed in French and then added some choice phrases that, even if you didn’t understand them, clearly weren’t complimentary and were clearly directed at them. 

Dean might not have understood, but Sam did. He flushed. “This is an English ship,” he said. “If you hate the English so much, why sail on an English ship?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “A ship belongs to no nation,” he snapped. 

“We’re sailing out of an English port with an English captain,” Sam said stubbornly. 

The man laughed, mouth open, displaying gums that were nearly totally empty whilst the teeth that remained were cracked and jagged. “Don’t speak to me of the captain,” he said. “Don’t speak of things you know nothing of.”

He threw down the tar brush and stood up to grab a passing cabin boy by the hair, demanding to know why he had failed to scrub away the flecks of tar. The boy twisted in his grip but had the good sense not to protest against the absurdity of the instruction.

“Why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut?” Dean hissed, once he was out of ear shot. 

“He was insulting us,” said Sam, with the self-righteousness of youth. 

“So? He just wanted to get a rise out of you and you gave him exactly what he wanted. Since when do you speak French anyway?”

Sam flushed. “I listen,” he said. “When the nobles talk in the churches. I’ve figured most of it out.”

Dean stared at him. French was the language of nobility and of privilege. No common man of their class had the right or the reason to speak it. The nobles wouldn’t like it. 

“We’re going to France and you didn’t think to mention that you can speak French?”

Sam shrugged apologetically, putting on the most innocent face he could. “I was going to mention it at some point,” he said.

Dean huffed and made sure to shake the rope in such a way that it sprayed water all over Sam. Sam, to his credit, took it with good grace. 

The conversation didn’t come back to haunt them until later that evening when all about a skeletal crew had retreated below deck to hide from the icy ocean spray. Sam and Dean were sitting together in a corner and while Sam was idly playing with a pair of dice Dean was occupied in checking his bow over for any imperfections when the man approached them, this time flanked by a group of equally unpleasant looking companions. 

“You are not only English, you are archers?” the man asked.

Dean didn’t acknowledge the question and one harsh look at Sam kept him quiet as well. 

“I said,” the man said, louder, “You are English archers.” Then he made a move that Dean would declare till his dying day justified everything that followed. He reached out to touch Dean’s bow.

Dean had made his bow when he was sixteen. He had found his chunk of wood whilst out gathering wood for the Bishop’s stores. He had taken it home and painstakingly carved it into one the largest and most impressive bows to be found, Dean believed, in any company of archers anywhere. Once he had carved it he had varnished it, rubbing layer upon layer of varnish into it until it was no longer yew coloured; it was black. It was a long bow. A thin, tapered piece of wood that, when strung, was so powerful no one but an archer who had trained every day of his life since the age of 10 could draw it. It was as much a part of him as his hand or his arm or his leg. For another man to presume to touch your bow was an insult beyond description. 

So, it was natural that the moment the man’s fingers brushed against the very edge of Dean’s bow, Dean’s knife was in his hand and he slashed at the man’s fingers. He flinched back, swearing loudly, as Dean, Sam and the man’s companions all sprang to their feet. 

For a moment nothing happened, then, with an animalistic scream the man threw himself towards Dean. This time the knife that flashed was Sam’s. He struck true and this time, instead of slicing the man’s fingers, the force of Sam’s blows cut three of the man’s fingers off and partially severed the fourth. Stupidly, Dean expected this to stop the attack but it didn’t. The man’s scream took on a slightly more hysterical pitch and he grabbed at the neck of Dean’s tunic with his injured hand. Dean could feel the stubs of the man’s fingers, slick with blood, scrabbling against the skin around his throat.

Dean grabbled with him. Then he saw Sam’s arm rise again. This time Sam embedded his knife firmly in the base of the man’s neck, just above the shoulder. The man stumbled back and in so doing, wrenched the knife out of his flesh leaving a jagged wound that pumped blood despite the hand that he frantically pressed there. For a few moments he swayed on the spot and then collapsed on the floor in a rapidly growing puddle of blood. 

Sam and Dean faced off against the man’s companions, across his body, splatted with his blood and waited. Luckily for them these men were not soldiers. They were not loyal men. They were mercenaries and their loyalty to each other extended only so far as they could see a financial reward for it. Sam and Dean had disposed of their companion so slickly and so brutally that the risk of death were they to attempt to avenge their companions death was very real. Sam and Dean were obviously not wealthy so there was no financial benefit to killing them. The men turned away and sat down again, returning to their card game. One of them shouted to the cluster of cabin boys in the far corner to clean up the mess. Sam and Dean sat down as well. 

Walter of Southampton was not pleased to hear of the events below deck on that evening and early the next morning, as they were within sight of the French dock where they were to land, he called Sam and Dean to him in his cabin. 

The cabin was oppressive. It smelt of sweat and grease and decay. Dean swallowed down nausea as they squared off against each other. 

“You owe me a man,” he said. 

“I don’t have a man to give you,” said Dean. 

Walter looked pointedly at Sam. “You don’t?”

“I’m not leaving Sam with you,” Dean said simply.

Walter slammed his fist into the desk. “Damn you,” he swore. 

“There are men everywhere,” said Dean. 

“You come onto my ship. You kill my man,” he was bristling with rage and punctuated his points by pounding on the desk. “You owe me compensation. You will give me this man…”

Dean practically vaulted over the desk and, in seconds, his knife was pressed to Walter’s neck. Flecks of dried blood were still visible on the short, deadly blade.

“Dean,” Sam reached out to try and check Dean’s progress but Dean shook him off.

“I’m not leaving Sam with you,” he said. 

Walter laughed. “Who is this man to you?” he asked, not visibly daunted by the knife at his throat. 

“He’s my brother,” said Dean.

Walter laughed again. “Alright,” he said. “ I understand that. Family obligation. I won’t take your brother from you. I’ll take something else instead. I’ll take your oath.”

Doubtfully, Dean removed the blade. “My oath?” he said. 

“Both your oaths,” said Walter. “Times are uncertain. The king needs men and he’s willing to pay. Should he call on me to provide men, you will be among their number in place of the man you took from me.”

“And if we don’t?” Sam asked. 

Walter spread his hands innocently in front of him and smiled sweetly, “Then I will find you. And I will take your lives.” 

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. It might have sounded like a far-fetched threat but there were limited ways into England and Walter was a powerful force at all of them. Should they ever wish to return to England and they had not upheld their oath they probably wouldn’t survive a single night in any port town on either side of the channel. Then, Sam gave the smallest of nods. It’s only fair, the tilt of his head said.

Dean sighed, “Fine. You have our word. If the king calls, we’ll fight under your banner.”

The way that Walter’s smile widened made Dean’s skin crawl and his blood run cold. He was extremely glad at that moment the watchmen called for all hands on deck. They were about to land in France.


	4. Deceptions and decisions

The first thing that Dean noticed about France was that it was warmer than England, despite this he was still glad of the woollen cloak wrapped around him. Sam and Dean were both dressed as was typical of archers at the time. They both wore woollen hose and woollen tunics that came to just above the knee and were held at the waist by simple leather belts. Over this they wore padded arming jackets known as gambesons. 

These thick, short sleeved garments were made of layers of stiff linen and stuffed with unprocessed wool. They were the simplest form of armour and were normally worn underneath maille shirts made of pressed metal rings. Sam and Dean were not wealthy enough to own maille and so they had to make do with their padded armour. It might not look like a lot and a gambeson probably wouldn’t totally stop the cut or thrust of a sword or axe, but it would probably absorb enough of the impact that the wound you received wouldn’t kill you instantly. A gambeson allowed you to make one mistake, not much more than that, but if you knew your business you didn’t often make more than one mistake in a row.

Over their gambesons they would ordinarily have worn their Lord’s heraldry but for obvious reasons they weren’t displaying any colours. Instead they had leather belts that held knives and short wool cloaks that were fastened by broaches at one shoulder so as to leave their hands reasonably free. It was a fashion that most popular amongst tribal peoples such as the Welsh, but Dean was more interested in practicality than fashion. Once his bow was slung across his back and his strings were safely stashed in a pouch at his belt to keep them dry, he was ready to go. 

As with many things, this was far easier said than done and this was where Sam came into his own. Travel was no easy matter. Large cities and market towns were well connected enough and there were often clear roads that lead from one to the other. Smaller places, villages in particular, were often connected to the roads by little more than tracks. These places generally had no formal names and were known only to those in the surrounding area. As a result, countries consisted of thin avenues of well known, well documented places that were flanked by endless blank expanses of the unknown that could only be penetrated by those with local knowledge. 

What they had been told that somewhere to the south of Bordeaux there was a dukedom called Albret and this was the region on which rumours of the crown of thorns were centred. This information meant little to Dean for whom France extended no further than the rugged coastline that you could see from Dover. Sam on the other hand, knew a little more. He had nodded knowingly as the Bishop had described its location and had explained his knowledge, a little sheepishly, by saying that he had on occasion found his way into the Bishop’s library and looked at his papers, which included maps. So it was very much Sam who was in charge of navigation.

“So? What’s the plan?” Dean asked as they walked into the heart bustling port of Cherbourg, which, though Dean didn’t know it, was some 400 miles north of Albret, a journey that could take three weeks on foot. 

“Horses,” said Sam. “We need horses.”

Dean froze. “Horses?” he asked incredulously. “Horses? Did you have a stroke and forget the fact that we don’t have any money.”

Sam give him a significant look. “We don’t necessarily need money.”

“We are not getting hung for horse thieves,” Dean growled. 

“You only get hung if you get caught,” said Sam, grinning and striding away.

Three hours later Sam and Dean were standing in an alleyway opposite the biggest inn in Cherbourg and Dean was questioning every choice that he had made in life to bring himself to this point. It was just past midday and the inn was a hive of activity. Men in surcoats all colours of the rainbow bearing a dizzying variety of devices bustled back and forth as they saw to the comfort of their lords. 

What Sam had noticed and Dean hadn’t was that they had docked alongside a ship carrying several noblemen. Sam had dragged Dean through the streets pointing at groups of men. “Earl of Northumberland,” he said, pointing to men with a blue lion on a field of yellow. “Duke of Gloucester,” blue background, yellow harp. “Earl of Pembroke,” yellow and green halves with red stripes. 

“So?” Dean had said, slowing considerably as they walked past a pie shop that was issuing the most tantalising aromas. “Lot of guys around in fancy jackets.”

Sam had grabbed his arm and pulled him along, muttering something about not thinking with his stomach. “So, Dean, a lot of guys in fancy jackets with a lot of men with a lot of horses.”

“And how does that help us?” Dean asked, his mood considerably worsened by the realisation of how hungry he was. 

“We’re not going to steal horses,” Sam said. “We’re going to borrow them because our Lord,” he gave a theatrical bow, “the Earl of Pembroke wishes a message carried out of Cherbourg tonight.”

It was an insane plan that might just about work. Companies of men were often large and as such servants identified each other by the colours that they carried rather than their faces. You would have thought that this would lead to much impersonation but surcoats were hard to replicate and it was nearly impossible to take one from a trained fighting man without staining or damaging it. Shields were occasionally painted in the wrong colours but without the clothing to match the deception was often discovered quickly. Besides, it was considered highly dishonourable to wear someone else’s signs and anyone who did so would face serious retribution. 

It was a good thing, Dean thought as he stood in the alleyway plucking uncomfortably at the yellow and green surcoat that he was wearing, that he was not a fully signed up member of the chivalry club and he was going to do anything he needed to do to get things done.

They had acquired the surcoats surprisingly easily. They had followed the two men who looked the most inclined towards drink through the back streets to an inn that looked so seedy that not even they would have chosen to go there. The men had drunk themselves into a stupor in record time at which point Sam and Dean had helped them outside, taken them into the wood store at the rear of a line of houses and killed them in the quietest most bloodless well possible, snapping their necks. Dead men can’t cause problems.  
For a moment, Dean remembered that it was that thought which had gotten them into this mess in the first place and temporarily questioned its wisdom, but with two dead men at their feet and some horses to steal there wasn’t much time available for introspection. 

“This isn’t going to work,” Dean said, as yet another group of Pembroke men scurried past. 

“Of course it’s going to work,” Sam said. 

“They’ll know we don’t belong there,” Dean hissed. “They’ve just spend two days on a boat together, you think they would recognise each other after that?”

“Would you recognise everyone we were on the boat with?” Sam asked pointedly, “Besides, tt’s not them we have to convince. You know how these places work. There’ll be some little kid in the table who’ll just want to make sure he doesn’t offend us because he’s still got the bruises from the last time he upset someone in a surcoat.”

That was true enough so Dean kept silent instead of attempting a futile argument. They were waiting, not for the cover of darkness when it would be extremely suspicious to want to take horses out, but for the moment when the activity in the yard would die down as men went out in search of food and entertainment.

Once things died down sufficiently, Dean turned to his brother, “Well now is as good a time as any. Let’s get this over with.”

Now that it had come down to it Sam wasn’t smiling anymore. His young face was all business as they crossed quickly across the muddy track that served as a road, dodging the carts that were lumbering through and entered the comparative cleanliness of the inn’s yard. 

Of the yard’s few inhabitants, there was a man checking the shoes on a horse by the stables, a young girl scraping a pot by the kitchen door and a filthy child of indeterminate sex squatting in the dirt playing with a limp and scrawny kitten, none of them gave them more than a brief glance. In many ways, the building was similar to the barracks in which they had lived in Westminster. A large yard was enclosed by wooden fences with the stables on one side and the main building opposite the main gate. 

The stables were accessed by a reasonably narrow entrance. This was to make it easier to secure them at night and also to ensure that horses had to enter and exit in an orderly fashion. These doors were closest to the outside gate wall, to prevent collision with guests as they left the main sleeping building. It also meant that they could slip inside relatively quickly. The stables were dark, smelly and cramped. There were stalls on either side of the central passage way and they were filled with horses, in some cases there were two horses in stalls that were clearly only meant for one. The horses were stamping restlessly. 

Despite the dim light, Dean could see that there was another person in the stables, a boy, at the far end of the stables, just as Sam had predicted. This was when things got difficult. The boy may not wish to challenge them, but he would well remember which horses belonged to which Lord. It was his job to get horses saddled and brought out to their rightful owners as quickly as possible. If Sam and Dean in some way showed themselves unfamiliar with the horses or equipment they might rouse suspicions that the boy could not ignore. 

The boy came towards them, tentatively. He was a typical specimen of the type, filthy from head to toe with a guarded expression, holding himself as if he was ready to run or duck at the first sign of trouble. He eyed them warily. In their current outfit they were retained soldiers, or at most, squires. They were not noble, not even close, but they weren’t servants and they were men who were slightly less disposable than the average commoner. As a result, their relationship with the common folk was fraught with tension. 

“Yes?” the boy said, stopping just short of the habitual my Lord. 

Dean tried to sound confident and suitably haughty. “We need horses. My Lord Pembroke wishes a message taken tonight.”

The boy nodded and moved to do as he was asked. Once he had selected horses, the smaller more mundane horses, not the enormous war horses Sam and Dean were able to help. Their time in poverty as young boys had taught them how to saddle a horse. Archers were not commonly mounted, but it was difficult to avoid learning to ride when you grew up farming. There had been at least one horse in the majority of the villages that they had lived in growing up and there had always been some occasion that demanded the ability to ride it. It was lucky because their attempt to pose as messengers would have fallen apart if at this point they had shown themselves to be shy or inexperienced around horses. 

It was almost too easy. Soon enough they were riding out of the gates. Sam was grinning again.

“Don’t look so happy,” Dean growled. “If someone recognises these horses before we’re out of here, we’re in trouble.”

“They won’t recognise them.”

“They might!”

“They won’t. People see what they expect to see and they’re not going to be expecting to see their lords houses riding out of the east road.”

“East?” Dean demanded. “I thought you said we needed to go south!”

Sam sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “If we go due south from here we’re going to end up in the sea. We’re on a peninsula.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Well, one of us has to,” Sam snapped back. 

They rode out of Cherbourg unchallenged. So far so good, Dean thought. 

-

Castiel had walked far enough down the path that its gentle curve hid him from his men who were still busily chopping the tree. He felt like he was caught between sounds. On the one hand, the steady and familiar thunk of the axes into the wood of the tree. On the other hand, the mysterious soft rustles of hooves on leaves. He could feel his heart beat accelerate. 

To calm himself, he reached up and touched the wooden cross that hung over his habit and then tucked his arms into the space between his habit and the scapular which he wore over it. His habit consisted of a dark brown tunic that reached to the floor with a grey hooded scapular on top. The scapular was a sleeveless garment that hung from the shoulders and fell just short of the length of his tunic. To keep it from flapping around, he used a length of rope as a belt around his waist. When the outfit was complete, he was left with a convenient place to rest his hands just above his belt. Supposedly, this pose made monks seem wise. Castiel generally just did it to keep his hands warm. 

Regardless, when the approaching rider came into view he was greeted with the sight of Castiel standing by the edge of the road in suitably composed fashion. The horse, Castiel did not recognise, the rider on the other hand was known to him.

Brother Michael was a lively young monk from the largest monastery in the region. Their house was some 15 miles distant and as a result communication between the two was infrequent. Castiel only knew of Michael because Michael was given to disobedience and had, on two occasions, been banished to l’angeau to remind himself of the proper life of a monk. Castiel had found him charming, friendly and utterly unsuited to the monastic existence. He was the youngest son of some minor Lord. He should have been riding into battle but his father had thirteen children, eight of them sons, and no money to outfit them all. As the youngest, Michael had been destined to the church from the outset. 

Typically, he was sitting on the horse in the laziest of fashions. He was leaning back with the reins held loosely in his hands and was clearly not making any effort to hasten on his errand. It must be an errand, Castiel reasoned, if Michael were being banished again he would have been forced to work. Upon catching sight of Castiel, Michael sat up quickly and arrived in front of him with a sheepish grin on his face.

“Brother Michael,” Castiel said, stepping forward to take the horses head, thus arresting Michael’s progress. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“And you Father,” said Michael, affording Castiel a great honour in the use of the title. 

“For what reason are you blessing us with your presence?” Castiel asked. He stroked the horses head casually, but out of the corner of his eye he was watching Michael carefully. 

A look of intense unease passed across Michael’s handsome young face and he shifted in his seat. “Father Thomas sent me,” he said. “There’s been trouble.” 

Michael glanced around uneasily. Castiel nodded. Father Thomas was an aged priest trusted with the care of the monasteries archives. A message from him could only be of the highest importance. “Perhaps we should speak in private.”

Getting Michael to the privacy of the Prior’s chamber was easier said than done. As they passed the groups of working monks greetings were exchanged and then someone had to be found to care for the horse. Brother Stephen who took excellent cares of their goats, cows and pigs looked at the horse like it was a nine headed sea monster and lead it away doubtfully. Had Michael’s expression not been so serious, Castiel would have found the image funny. As it was he was simply eager to hear the worst that Michael’s message could bring. 

Once in the Prior’s room, which was dark and cool and scented by the legacy of long depleted stores of incense, he gestured Michael to a seat, remaining standing himself.  
From within his habit, Michael produced a letter, tightly folded, which he handed to Castiel. He took it, but did not open it. 

“You do not know the contents of this letter?” he asked.

Michael shook his head, “No Father.”

“You said there has been trouble. What did you mean?”

“Soldiers,” Michael answered promptly. “They came to the monastery asking all sorts of questions about the archives. They questioned the Prior and all the older monks and then they questioned Father Thomas. They came once and the Prior sent them away. Then they came again and when they didn’t get the answers they wanted, they beat Brother Matthew.”

Castiel flinched. He knew Brother Matthew. He must have been over 70 years old and as gentle an old man as you could hope for. 

“What did Matthew do to offend them?”

Michael flushed. “They said he was a sodomite,” he mumbled. 

Castiel nodded. It was probably true. Michael would not have flushed if it wasn’t. He wondered briefly whether it hinted at any relationship between the two, but pushed the thought aside. Matthew was far too old for Michael. But Michael was far too hot blooded for celibacy to be a realistic aim for him. Castiel suspected that if it was not Matthew with whom Michael had a dalliance; it was one of the other young, hot blooded, noble born boys that were lining the halls of the monasteries. 

“Did he survive?” Castiel asked. 

“Yes,” said Michael. “Though he has been blinded.”

This prompted a sigh. Castiel should have been shocked by such violence against a man of the cloth, but it was not the protection it might once have been and should still have been. Violence against the religious houses were common, particularly in times of war. Some acts, the Pope even signed dispensations for. It used to make Castiel angry. Not any more. He was too used to it. 

“Have they been back since then?”

Michael shook his head. “No. They spoke to Father Thomas and when they left they seemed satisfied. Father Thomas called me to him just after they left and gave me that,” he indicated the letter, “and told me to bring it to you. He said it was vitally important.”

“Alright. Go to the kitchen and see if you can’t persuade Brother Gabriel to give you something to eat.”

Michael grinned and scuttled away leaving Castiel with the letter in hand. As he unfolded it, he allowed himself to wonder why the visit of soldiers should prompt Father Thomas to send a letter out to a cell as secluded as this. He could think of no possible explanation and resigned himself to reading the letter, written in the shaky hand of an educated man whose body was failing him. It read:

_I hope that Michael forgets his idle ways and brings this letter to you before you play host to any unwelcome visits. If he doesn’t, then we have failed. If he does, you will no doubt have heard by now that all is not well and we are under attack. The men who came to us seek to find something that was placed in the keeping of our order many hundreds of years ago. An artefact of unimaginable power that would give any man unrestrained right to rule. As such, I’m sure I need not tell you that it is too great a treasure for any mortal man to hold. You may find it hard to believe Castiel, for you are a good and simple man of God, but that artefact lies within your hands in a simple wooden box and it is the sole reason for the existence of La maison de l'agneau. I have placed false trails for these men to follow, but they cannot be kept from your door for ever._

_It is your curse, Castiel, that the guardianship of this item falls to you. The men who seek at are Frenchmen in the employ of King John. I do not doubt that if they have come searching here that the servants of other kings and ambitious dukes and barons and lords will not be far behind. These men must not (this last was heavily underlined) be allowed to retrieve it. The consequences of any powerful man in Europe possessing it would be too terrible to imagine. I charge you, Castiel, that you must take this item and you must take it to a new resting place where no mortal man will ever find it. This charge I lay at your feet as a servant of God._

_Do not fail us._

Then, a few spaces beneath this, scrawled as an afterthought: _And for God’s sake do not open that box._

Castiel read this extraordinary communication through several times before he thought he had fully understood it all. Slowly, he placed the letter on the table and sat down. Calm on the outside, his mind was racing. Did he believe that here, in this house, they held an artefact of unimaginable power? No. Of course he didn’t. No more did he believe that the Holy Grail had survived and was hosed within the Pope’s vaults. Castiel was a practical man. Did he believe that if people were sufficiently convinced that an artefact held such a power it could have disastrous consequences for the minds of those men and therefore, all that they did? Yes. Did he believe that this could in turn have disastrous consequences for the people of Europe if those men were ones entrusted with the guardianship of lands and men? Yes. As such, while he dismissed the fantastical elements of the letter, he acknowledged that the threat was very real. 

He did then what he had resisted until then. He went to the rough wooden cupboard which housed the wealth of the cell and unlocked it with the key that hung at his belt. From the cupboard, he took the small wooden box mentioned in the letter and placed it carefully on the table. The box was utterly unremarkable. Totally undecorated. Plain wood. It didn’t even have metal hinges. It was instead just a wooden square with a tapered top and a narrow tray of wood wedged on top. He knew that appearances were no assurance of power. He grabbed the sides of the box as though he were going to open it, but then thought better of it, remembering the note at the bottom of the letter. 

“I charge you, Castiel, that you must take this item and you must take it to a new resting place where no mortal man will ever find it. This charge I lay at your feet as a servant of God.”

It was a serious charge and one that Castiel could not, himself, make a decision on. He replaced the box where he had found it and went out to the chapel. Castiel needed to pray.


	5. Never plain sailing

The novelty of travelling by horse soon wore off. The roads were poor and waterlogged in the aftermath of the winter thaw and as such, the journey was far from comfortable. Unaccustomed to riding long distances Dean and Sam were both soon feeling the strain in muscles that they didn’t often use. Combined with the general soreness brought about by the steady jolts that were shot up through their bodies with each impact of hoof into soft soil the result was two thoroughly miserable young men. Not to mention bored. 

Outside Cherbourg they had at least had the diversion of looking at farmland and small villages that clustered around the main road, but as they had moved away from the city these settlements had become fewer in number and smaller. France was a large and fertile land. Communities didn’t need to be close together and many thrived in splendid isolation with only the most minimal contact with others through the local markets. 

It was also true that France was a country that had known conflict. Serfdom had been abolished in France nearly 50 years previously. This did not change the fact that your best chance for protection always had and always would be your local Lord. They might not have an obligation to the local peasants and the peasants had no obligation to them, but in practise the relationship between the two was still to a certain extent symbiotic. Communities that lived too far from the aid of a powerful military centre did not necessarily survive. 

This region had seen much fighting recently as since January of the previous year Edward, the Black Prince, had tried to gain territory by pushing north through the country, burning and pillaging as he went. The country was in turmoil and it was a dangerous time to be Englishmen riding through predominantly French lands.

For the first few days their journey was relatively uninterrupted. They rode all day, stopping when it became too dark to see to camp out in the open or under whatever shelter they could find just to rise again at first light to continue their journey. It was wet and miserable and by the end of a week they were filthy, soaked through and thoroughly sick of their travels. 

They fed themselves by hunting, stopping only once or twice to trade for bread in villages where, in incredibly fluent French, Sam would check that they were still travelling in the right general direction. 

It was on the eighth day after they had embarked from Cherbourg that Dean’s patience with the situation evaporated. He stood under the dubious cover of a tree looking out at the pouring rain with his damp cloak wrapped tightly around himself whilst Sam kicked dirt over the remains of their meagre fire to put it out with the minimum of smoke.

“Why are we doing this Sam?” Dean asked.

“Because you fucked up and got your knife stuck in the wrong guy,” said Sam without missing a beat. The tone of the response was a testament to the fact that Sam was also not in the best of moods.

Dean chose to ignore the snarky tone and continued, “I mean, we’re in France now. Warwick can’t reach us here. We could just throw in the towel, find a city, sell our souls to the highest bidder. Hell, we’re already sworn to a pirate. It can’t get much worse than that.”

He turned around just in time to catch the expression on Sam’s face that said it could almost certainly get worse than that. 

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. We gave our word.”

“Since when did folks like us have a word that meant anything?”

“Just because we don’t have money doesn’t mean we can’t be honourable,” Sam pointed out. “You gave your word Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered. 

With the fire put out there was no reason to linger any further and they climbed back into the saddles. As they ventured out into the pouring rain bundled in their cloaks and with their pointed wool hoods pulled low to try and shield their eyes, Dean thought the conversation was over, but Sam had other ideas.

After a few moments he said, “you know we’re not as common and worthless as you always pretend.”

Dean darted a quick glance at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend,” said Sam. “You know our Mum…”

“Stop it, Sam."

“No, Dean. I’m not going to stop it. We’ve never talked about this…”

“Yeah, because there’s nothing to talk about.”

“There is everything to talk about,” said Sam. “Are you really going to keep pretending that the Bishop sent someone to come and find us out of the goodness of his heart?”

“He’s a generous man,” said Dean, purposefully obtuse. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Right.”

“What do you want me to say Sam?” Dean demanded, slowing the horses walk so he could stare at Sam through a haze of rain with less risk of his horse stumbling and sending him tumbling to the ground. 

“I want you to admit that it was weird.”

“Ok, so it was weird. Are you happy now?”

“No.”

Dean threw his head back in disbelief, then dropped it forward to stare at the pommel of the saddle whilst he counted to ten. He had once been told that it promoted patience. 

“Mum was a servant in the Bishop’s household.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean replied, tiredly.

“Roger,” this was the Bishop’s aged cook, “remembered her. And he remembered Dad. And he remembered them leaving.” He gave Dean space to reply but Dean remained stubbornly silent. “I could buy it that the Bishop took us in just because he’s a good man. That’s his job. What I can’t buy is that he would send someone out to find us. And I don’t buy it that he would help you now if there wasn’t something else going on.”

“Stop it Sam.”

“Why would he let me go around in his library? Why would he pay to train us instead of just putting us in the kitchen? Why would he do any of that?”

“Stop,” Dean repeated.

“Dean, I really think that the Bishop might be,” he hesitated. “I think he could be our father. Or yours. Or mine. Or something. There’s something there.”

Dean lost his temper. “Stop it Sam! There is no point in any of this. So he is our father. What does that change? Nothing. It changes nothing. Dad still raised us. Dad still died and left us. Dad is still the person who everyone is going to judge us by. The Bishop can’t ever acknowledge us. He can’t ever give us anything. So stop this. It is pointless Sam. Pointless.”

And with that final word Dean gave his horse a kick and spurned it on quicker through the rain away from Sam and any possible retort that he might make. Dean wasn’t stupid. He knew that what Sam said made sense. Men of God might be sworn to celibacy, but very few men seemed to stick to it. Particularly the wealthier ones who had to deal with the secular world of Lords and Ladies. It was a near certainty that someone like the Bishop had had affairs and that some of those would have resulted in children. Was it possible that they were such children? Yes, of course it was. Their mother had been beautiful, everyone said it and she would have caught any man’s eye. But like Dean had said, had she and the Bishop had some kind of illicit affair that had resulted in Sam and himself then that would make absolutely no difference to their lives. There was no point raking over that kind of ground. It was useless self-punishment. 

Riding forward distractedly with these angry thoughts in his mind and with the visibility obstructed by the rain, Dean practically collided with the lone horseman coming in the other direction. His horse shied away at the last minute, rearing up and throwing Dean from the saddle. The other man, clearly a far more experienced horseman kept his seat, but barely. 

The fall forced all the air from Dean’s body and he lay on his back, stunned, looking up at the man he had collided with. He was riding a large and powerful horse, but was relatively lightly armoured wearing only maille and a helmet, no plate armour. It took only a few moments for Dean to register that he was wearing the blue of France and had the fleur-de-lis prominently displayed. That was a discovery that was not in itself problematic. What was problematic was that the man was riding forward and pulling his sword. Either he didn’t appreciate being knocked into or he objected to Dean’s presence for some other reason, but he was clearly interested in eliminating him. 

Luckily for Dean, killing a man with a sword whilst mounted on a horse was not the easiest proposition. Dean scrambled to his feet and remained on his toes, facing off against the advancing rider. He thought about running away, but he couldn’t outrun a horse and it’s hard to fight an enemy you have your back to. 

The man kicked the horse and Dean realised that he had only one chance. As the man raised his arm and swung his sword down to hack at Dean, Dean threw himself forward and under the blow. He spun quickly, grabbed the man’s arm and used the forward momentum of the horse and the force behind the blow to pull the man from the saddle, head first.   
The man fell heavily, twisting out of Dean’s grip as he did so. The fall was a heavy one and being in armour meant that the man’s recovery took a few seconds longer. Dean didn’t wait for him to find his feet. He pulled his knife and launched himself forward, aiming for the exposed space between the collar of the man’s maille shirt and the rim of his helmet. His blow was intercepted as the man, sensing the attack, raised his arm and Dean’s knife glanced away harmlessly, deflected by the smooth metal rings. He was forced to dodge backwards as the man swung his sword wildly as he clambered to his feet.

“Sammy,” Dean yelled into the rain, hoping that his brother was still in ear shot as he danced away from the experts cuts of the man’s sword. 

The man was not stupid enough to think that Dean’s yell symbolised the imminent arrival of help, but equally he was not stupid enough to ignore it. As Dean parried the cuts of the sword, being driven back over and over again, he saw the man increasingly darting glances left and right, looking for anyone that Dean might be with.

Dean took advantage of one of these gaps to lunge forwards and slash again at the exposed skin near the neck. He missed and as he darted away the longer reach of the sword came into its own and the tip sliced across Dean’s forearm which was not protected by his short sleeved gambeson. Dean bit his tongue to keep from crying out and tried to ignore the feel of the blood dripping down his arm. 

Just as the man raised his sword to deliver a blow that Dean, with an injured arm and on the back foot, had no hope of blocking, Dean heard something that made him smile: the distinctive whistle of an arrow. The man never managed to deliver his blow, at the peak of his swing his body seized up, his eyes widened and then he dropped to the floor with an arrow buried in his back. As the man lay, gasping out his last breaths, Dean took the time to take the sword out of his hand and throw it to one side. 

Moments later Sam’s familiar shape emerged from the rain. He had an arrow on his string, ready to take on any other threats in the area. When he saw Dean standing by the man’s body, he released the tension on the string and lowered the bow.

“What the hell Dean?” he asked. “What happened?”

“Bumped into this guy and he tried to kill me,” said Dean. Now that the threat was gone he was examining the extent of his injury. He was most annoyed by the fact that the sleeve of his tunic was torn. 

“Why?” Sam asked. He nudged the man’s now still body with the toe of his leather show. “A king’s man?”

Dean nodded. “I don’t think he wanted anyone to know he’d ridden this way.”

“Why?” Sam repeated. 

There was only one explanation Dean could think of. “He’s a scout,” he said. 

Automatically, Sam pulled the string of his bow back a little way. A scout could only mean one thing. Somewhere in the vicinity there was an army. A French army. An enemy army. 

-

Frustratingly, even after hours of prayer Castiel was no nearer to a decision about what he should do. Though Castiel considered himself someone with a personal and close relationship with God, it was a rare occurrence that God spoke to him with complete clarity. Mostly Castiel felt that he was simply guided to the correct choice rather than being told what he should do. On this occasion he did not feel spoken to nor did he feel as though he had been guided. 

He had been kneeling in front of the altar with his hands clasped in front of him in a proper show of devotion. Now he rocked back on his heels and sighed in frustration. He wondered idly whether Michael had left yet. Then he ran through all the members of his community to see whether there was anyone there who he could trust with the contents of the letter and ask to advise him, but there was no one that he wanted to burden with the knowledge. 

What were the facts? He had in his possession a wooden box that was believed to contain an artefact of value. Men who had this belief were searching the area and had shown that they were willing to use violence to retrieve it. Father Thomas, a learned man whom Castiel respected, believed that the artefact could not fall into their hands. So what was at stake? Possibly the security of the nation, definitely the safety of the men and the community entrusted to his care. That was the more immediate problem. 

He thought again of his men and realised that there was one of his brothers that he wanted to speak to. Brother Septimus. Castiel went in search of him. He found Septimus where he was always to be found, pottering backwards and forwards in the tiny walled herb garden that lay to the left of the main building. 

Septimus was an ancient man. Castiel didn’t know how old he was but the skin on his face was wrinkled and sagged making his pointed features all the more so. He had thin lips that were permanently pursed in an expression of amused disdain, but underneath the no nonsense attitude Septmus was a kindly enough old man. And wise for all that. He was in the process of pulling at some stubborn weeds in one corner when Castiel approached him.

“Brother Castiel,” he said, standing up. He peered closely at his face. “Michael has brought you bad news,” he added. It wasn’t a question.

“He has,” said Castiel. 

“A problem shared is a problem halved,” Septimus said practically.

“It is not a problem that I can share Brother.”

Septimus scoffed at that. “Nonsense. You can share it. You choose not to. The question is why.”

“I do not wish to endanger you.”

This comment was greeted with an equally dismissive hand wave. “Endanger me? My boy, at my age, everything is a danger. Even breathing. Death is so close to me that I almost feel as if he and I were one. So don’t worry about endangering me.”

Castiel couldn’t argue with that, so he began with, “Michael brought me a letter from Father Thomas.”

Septimus nodded. “He wrote to you of our little artefact did he?”

Castiel was surprised, but not hugely. “You know of it?”

“Of course,” said Septimus. “It was not always hidden. The man who was Prior here when I first came displayed it in the chapel. I think I’m the only one who remembers those days now.”

“Why was it hidden? Do you remember?” Castiel asked.

“It was felt to have an evil power over men,” said Septimus. “Empty superstition if you ask me, but even superstitions can have very real power over foolish men. It is better hidden.”

“Father Thomas has asked me to find it a new resting place.”

“It is probably for the best,” Septimus agreed. 

“So you believe I should take it and leave?”

Septimus shrugged. “Is that what you believe?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t think you would have proposed it so readily if you didn’t,” Septimus said shrewdly. 

“I can’t leave this place. It’s my job to care for it.”

“Brother Alfred is more capable than he looks.”

“Where would I go?”

“Now that,” said Septimus, “is a question that you need to put to someone who knows a little more of the world than I do. Though I would say that you should follow your instincts and when you find the right place for it you’ll know.”

“That sounds an awful lot like superstition.”

“Like I said, superstition has power.”

Castiel smiled sadly. “I don’t think I’m the right sort of man for this task. I’m a simple man. These matters are too large for me.”

“History is made by simple men who act whilst greater men talk,” said Septimus, wisely. “It is also true that when we go beyond the simple things in life and we are dealing with the great events of this world it would be a strange thing if we were to find an expert. I’m not sure there are many experienced secretors of priceless artefacts in this world.”

That forced Castiel to laugh. 

“You’re a young man Castiel,” said Septimus. “And I guess that this will be your only chance to make your mark on the world, for better or for worse. I would take it. Lest you end up an aged man such as I whose greatest accomplishment will be the successful harvest of a crop of summer strawberries.”

Castiel walked away from the conversation with Septimus with his heart considerably lightened. Perhaps God had spoken to him directly after all. It seemed he had a journey to prepare for.

-

Dean and Sam lay on their stomachs on a small ridge overlooking a tiny village clustered around a thin stream about a mile distant from the main road. The village had clearly been burnt out at some point and there wasn’t a single villager in sight, but it was far from empty. It was packed with soldiers, many of them wearing the livery of King John of France. There were horses and supply carts and even some women wandering about. It wasn’t an army, far from it, but it was a significant unit of fighting men.

Sam and Dean had found them after following the lone rider’s tracks. It had been easy. A good fighter the man hadn’t been a particularly good scout. Sam had suggested that perhaps he had wanted to be traceable but Dean couldn’t think why he would have wanted that. Not until they had gone back to fetch the horses only to discover all the signs that a large group of men and crossed road recently. Having followed those tracks they had found another force of men, these definitely English, setting up camp on the crest of a hill on the other side of the main road. 

So there were two large groups of men under a mile apart, one French, on English and Sam and Dean were stuck in the middle.

“These guys are definitely getting ready for something,” Sam said. 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. Despite being stopped the men were all in armour and they were mostly seeing to their equipment or chewing on chunks of bread. They weren’t drinking. There were no fires. There were all the signs of a group of fighting men ready to move out as soon as they were ordered. “What do you want to bet they know exactly what’s camped out on that hill?”

“What do you want to bet that the folks on that hill don’t know what’s down here?” Sam replied.

Dean sighed. “I hate ambushes.”

What went unspoken between them was the moral dilemma in which they were now placed. The two forces were roughly equal in size and type. If they were to meet on a fair field then it could go either way. Many soldiers would be killed and it would probably only have ended when the nerve of one side failed and they ran for it at which point the survivors would be cut down as they ran and the few that survived that either re-joining the main army from which they had come or running away to try and get back home. 

In this situation? The unsuspecting English side would probably be slaughtered in minutes as their camp was flooded by armoured soldiers. They would be unarmoured, their weapons packed away, some of them would be asleep…they wouldn’t stand a chance. 

“We should go warn them Dean,” Sam said eventually.

Dean didn’t answer.

“It’s only fair.”

“I know,” Dean replied. “But do you think they’re gonna let us walk in there and say ‘hey guys, there’s some French soldiers over the hill coming to get you. Who are we? Don’t worry about that! Who do we serve? It’s complicated! Ok, bye.’ And then just lets us go?”

“No,” Sam admitted.

“Exactly.”

“That doesn't mean we shouldn't try. They’ll be slaughtered Dean.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah I know.” He pushed himself up slightly to take a better look at the village below. “I don’t think we’ve got too long. Let’s get this over with.”

Walking into an encampment of soldiers was a tricky proposition, particularly when you weren’t wearing colours and therefore weren’t easily identifiable. Sam and Dean debated what they would do and opted for the simplest method, just walking in through the most obvious avenue and hoping for the best. 

Predictably, this didn’t get them very far. The soldiers had created a perimeter of supply carts around the camp and pitched their tents in a sort of rough circle. There were gaps in the perimeter to allow people to pass easily out and down towards the river to get fresh water. This was the way that Sam and Dean chose to approach. The majority of the soldiers might have been casual but there were two men seated on barrels by one of the carts who were still wearing their armour and were on watch. 

On catching sight of Sam and Dean they were on their feet, hands on the pommel of their swords and blocking their passage.

“Who are you?” one of them demanded. 

“We’re travellers,” said Sam. “We’re er...” Sam hesitated over the excuse just a moment too long.

“Longbowmen,” the man said, indicating the bows that they carried slung over their shoulders. “And English. Who do you serve?”

“That’s er…complicated,” Sam said. Dean could see him cursing himself as the only word that came to mind was Dean’s flippant remark from earlier. 

The man scoffed whilst his companion chuckled and spat on the floor. 

“What do you want?” the man asked.

“We need to talk to your captain,” said Dean, making an educated guess at the rank of a suitable person to give their message to. 

The man stared at him and then shook his head, “get out of here.”

“No can do my good man. You need to take us to your captain.”

Sam groaned. This was Dean at his most confrontational. It was a mood that Sam was familiar with. It did not bode well. The man reacted to Dean’s voice with predictable good grace. He started to draw his sword, but, as Walter of Southampton had discovered, Dean’s reactions were good. In seconds his dagger was against the man’s throat and he had him pressed up against the cart. Dean was aware of the brief scuffle behind him and trusted that Sam was dealing with the man’s companion in a suitable fashion. 

“Listen,” Dean said. “We are here to do you a favour. Take us to your captain or die a horrible death in the next couple of hours. Or, actually, if you keep arguing with me, in the next couple of minutes.”

The man changed his mind about taking them to his captain astonishingly quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably say that I realise that in 1356 Cherbourg was very much French territory and therefore it’s pretty unlikely that any English lords would have docked there. I could have made the Lords in the inn French, but I find the English Lord’s easier so I’m fudging it. Plus if I’d had the ship land in English territory then they would have been far too close to Bordeaux for my purposes. I’m also throwing realistic troop movements out of the window for this. I have no idea where the main armies were in the early part of 1356 and as it’s not hugely important at this point I’m just putting them where I want them. I promise that things will get more historically accurate later!


	6. Disputed loyalties

The English force was under the command of a grizzled old knight whose power clearly came from skill rather than rank. He suspected that even knighthood had been forced upon him. Dean was strongly reminded of Bobby and, as a result, immediately decided that the man was worthy of their respect. 

“I’m Sir Hugo,” he growled, he was seated on a wooden bench outside one of the only tents in the camp to be striped with colour drinking from a large pot of ale. He’d discarded his armour but still wore his sword belt over his under tunic. It was a tunic made of fine linen in a rich scarlet but it was sweat stained and torn. Sir Hugo clearly didn’t care much for his finery. “And who might you boys be?”

“My names Dean. This is my brother Sam,” said Dean, pointing to himself and then to his brother.

“Englishmen?”

“Yes.”

“Know how to shoot those things?” he asked, indicating their bows.

Dean smiled. “Wouldn’t get us far as firewood,” he said.

Sir Hugo smiled grimly. “So who are you running from?”

Dean didn’t flinch. “We’re not running from anyone.”

“I’m no fool,” said Hugo, taking a swig from his drink. “There’s only two kinds of armed Englishmen wandering around France that belong to a the King: oath breakers and mercenaries. You too don’t smell bad enough to be mercenaries so you must be oath breakers.”

“We haven’t broken any oaths,” Sam protested indignantly. Sam might be a sinner through and through, but he considered himself an honourable one. He resented any insinuation that he was not honourable.

“Then why aren’t you with your Lord? Hmmm?” Hugo asked, shaking his mug in Sam’s direction. “Why are you here and not serving our King?”

“We’re serving him in our own way,” said Dean coolly. “We’re sworn to the Bishop of Winchester.”

Dean could see that information being processed behind Hugo’s beady blue eyes. 

“Winchester?”

Dean nodded.

“He’s a powerful man.”

Dean nodded again. 

“You’d be stupid if you were trying to run from him. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere.”

Dean took the hint. Hugo meant that the Bishop had eyes and ears even here and that if they were deserting him then that information would reach the Bishop’s ears as soon as possible and then they would have another person on their tails. He wondered briefly what Hugo’s connection to the Bishop was, but it probably wasn’t important. A man of his age would have had the opportunity to spend time around the majority of the countries nobles at some time or other.

“So, what brings two of the Bishop of Winchester’s men, who look like they should know better, into my camp at this time of night?”

“There’s some French troops saddling up in a village less than a mile from here. Reckon they’re looking to ride in here just before it gets dark and take you out,” said Dean bluntly.  
It was a testament to Hugo’s experience that he did not immediately dismiss the suggestion or try to protest that it was impossible. He swore violently and shook his head. 

“How do you know?” he asked.

“We saw them,” said Sam. “Bumped into one of their scouts, followed his tracks.”

“Do they know you saw them?”

“No. But we killed the scout so if they found the body they might be on guard.”

“There any chance they’re not interested in us?”

“Yes,” said Dean simply. “But they were definitely getting ready to attack something and unless you know someone else they might want to fight in the area then I’m guessing it’s you.”  
Hugo’s hesitation was understandable. Men’s morale was a tricky thing. Soldiers were simple folk who would do almost anything so long as they were well rested and well fed. Difficulties started to arise when they were neither of these things. So to deprive them of an evening’s rest following a long day marching in the rain for no reason would only cause Hugo difficulty in the long run.   
But then, difficult men were better than dead men so after few more moments Hugo rose to his feet and started yelling orders to the men around him. 

“We’re not seriously listening to a couple of deserting archers?” one man asked incredulously. 

“Well, if you want to be stabbed in your bed, by all means, be my guest. Don’t bother getting ready. Anyone who wants to survive the night, armour up.” Then he refocused his attention back onto Sam and Dean. “You guys going to stick around? We could use the extra help. Our archers aren’t up to much.”

Sam and Dean exchanged looks. It was late in the day and they weren’t going to make much progress if they did leave. If there was a battle then the surrounding area would soon be filled with those who had run for their lives. Desperate men were likely to stab anyone in the dark so it would be risky. Dean sighed.

“Guess we’re sticking around,” he said. 

-

After the compline service on the evening of the day of Michael’s visit, Castiel raised his hand to keep his brother’s seated in the rickety wooden pews. The candle light flickered across their upturned faces and Castiel was momentarily overwhelmed by affection for them all.

“If I could just keep you a moment,” he said with a smile, “I have something that I would like to discuss with you. As you all know, Brother Michael has visited us today. He has brought us joy with his company and he has also brought us news. Unfortunately, the news that he has brought us relates to urgent business that I have to attend to at the monastery. So I will have to leave for a little while. I’m not sure how long I will be gone for. It is a complex business to which I must attend. In my absence I will leave you in the capable hands of Brother Alfred who I am sure will ensure that things continue to run smoothly.”

He waited as he allowed the brothers to digest the information. They were a community and it was understood by all present that any thoughts or feelings that they wanted to express about the announcement would be gladly received. 

“What is the nature of the business?” Gabriel asked after a moment or two. 

“I am not at liberty to say,” said Castiel awkwardly. “It is also difficult to communicate the full nature of something in a single letter,” he added. 

“That’s certainly true,” said Septimus. “I’m sure Alfie can look after us fine. Despite appearances, he wasn’t born yesterday.”

Alfred met Septimus’ mischievous grim with a mild, good natured smile. He was a tall, thin man who looked hardly a day over 16 though he was in fact in his late 20’s. He was one of the few men who had joined the order with a suitably religious name, Samandriel, and had begged to change it. Now he was formally known as Alfred, but was referred to affectionately as Alfie. Despite being on the sweetest and best natured men among them, he was prone to disasters and as such it was felt that placing him in a higher position of authority where one his greatest crimes could be spilling ink was the best thing for everyone. He saw to his responsibilities diligently and well and was as capable a man as you could wish for at the helm of the operation.

“I’ll do my best,” Alfie said, levelly, in response to the jibe.

Castiel smiled at the exchange. He knew why Septimus had stepped in so promptly. As one of the oldest and most respected members of the community, if he accepted the situation then others would follow his lead. He appreciated the interference. Younger members of the order such as Brother Gabriel or Brother Inias were inquisitive and still interested in the world at large. Both of them had been sent to La maison de l'agneau because they had found their previous communities too restricting and had decided that the physical labour required at l’agneau was what would help them keep their vows. 

“God’s blessing on your journey,” Inias said. 

“Thank you,” Castiel replied. “Now, I have kept you from your rest long enough. Good night my brothers.”

The following morning Castiel prepared himself for his journey. It was a simple matter. He packed the wooden box; a small supply of dried meat, bread and oats; some fire starting equipment and a leather water flask into a linen sack. An ingeniously attached piece of rope meant that the sack could be easily carried by being slung over his shoulder. 

The only other thing that he was to take with him was a stout wooden staff. It was a combination of walking stick and protection. Castiel was not naïve enough to think that his monk’s habit would protect him on the road so he had to be able to defend himself. However, men of God were forbidden to draw blood so they were restricted to the use of blunt weapons. Castiel did not enjoy violence. He was not an advocate of it. He wasn’t a pacifist however. He knew that there were times when violence was the only option and if it came down to it, Castiel would be able to at least get a few hits in which might be enough to convince someone that he wasn’t the easy target they thought he was. 

In a religious community, it was difficult to sneak out because the regularity of the rites that needed to be observed through the day meant that even the night was not an undisturbed haven of solitude. As a result, Castiel thought that he might as well leave after breakfast. They had just finished eating and he was standing in the Prior’s room mentally running through in his mind whether he had forgotten to pack anything when Gabriel appeared.

“Let me come with you,” Gabriel said, without any preamble. 

“No.”

“There’s safety in numbers.”

Castiel sighed. “You have a role to play here,” he said. 

“I can do more than just help plow the fields and cut wood,” Gabriel insisted. “I can help you.”

“I’m sure you could,” said Castiel. “Never the less this is not business that concerns you and I would not want you involved in it.”

“What are you going to do?” Gabriel asked, repeating his question from the previous night. 

“I can’t discuss it.”

“You’re not just going to the monastery,” Gabriel said. It was not a question. 

Castiel didn’t reply. His modifications of the truth had rested easy on his conscious until that point as they were not direct lies and they were all well intentioned. Lie in response to a direct question he could not.

“Tell me this,” said Gabriel. “Is what you do in the service of God or man?”

“Man,” Castiel replied reluctantly.

The look that Gabriel gave him in response to that statement reminded him that whilst Gabriel was still young, he was older than Castiel. 

“We do not serve man Castiel,” said Gabriel firmly.

“Sometimes Brother Gabriel, the act of serving man is a service to God in itself.” Castiel wasn’t sure he believed the relevance of that statement in this situation but he still felt moved to say it.

“Then take me with you,” Gabriel repeated. 

“I thought you were happy here. I thought your restless days were done.”

Gabriel shrugged. “It’s not in my nature to settle. This place was a haven from my demons and temptations and at the time I thought I could remain separated from the world forever and be happy, but now I feel that I have seen too much of the world to ever truly leave it behind.”

Castiel had heard Gabriel confess to many demons in his time as Prior and he sympathised. What many of those in the secular world didn’t realise was that a monastery could hold as many opportunities for pride and vanity and lust and sin as any castle or palace. Those that could not reconcile sin with their supposed holy vows often opted to be men of God but in the outside world. When all those around were greater sinners than you, it was easier to maintain a sense of holiness. 

“If you wish to go out into the world Gabriel and you believe that is best then do so. But this is not the way to do it.”

Gabriel’s mouth set in a determined line. “Yes Father,” he said and turned and left. 

Castiel couldn’t help but recognise that the title was given sarcastically. He wished he had the time to address Gabriel’s issues properly. He wished he had the time to help or had heard of them sooner so he could have done something. He suspected that the latter was not possible. His leaving was probably the catalyst. If even quiet, conservative Castiel could leave then so could anyone else. At the back of his mind there was the niggling concern that his words were not sufficient to keep Gabriel safe and to keep him at La maison de l'agneau during his absence, but he could do more. He had to leave and as his only plan at that moment was to go east because he knew of fewer towns in that direction than any other , he did not wish to drag anyone else into his uncertain future.

-

Sam had gone out with the scouting party to see what the French were doing. Dean had gone to retrieve their horses and then to organise the company’s meagre troop of archers. There were no longbow men, only common archers. These men were skilled in their own, but their bows lacked the power of a longbow and as such they had not had to train for the length of time men like Sam and Dean did. It was much like crossbow men. A man armed with a crossbow could be deadly, but it was likely that he was not as familiar with his weapon and not as experienced as a man who used a weapon it took ten years to be able to use correctly and there was no substitute for experience.

Common bow men also lacked range which meant that they had to be closer to the fighting. Not armed for close combat, nor trained for it, a company of archers could be decimated in seconds by a handful of spearmen or axe man. Early in his training he had been told that if a soldier ever got close enough to fight him hand to hand then he hadn’t been doing his job properly. Your job was to shoot from a distance and to keep that distance even if it meant periodically running away. 

Had Dean been in charge of a group of longbow men he would have set them to the north of the camp where, after a narrow but deep ditch there was a ridge with a thin line of trees. The lack of cover was compensated by the distance and the fact that to get to them soldiers would have to go into the ditch where they could be easily picked off until the bodies were piled so high that others thought better of it. 

As it was, Dean had to set the men to the east. Here, the surrounding forest had encroached on the little hill on which the English were camped. The minimal cover was the best they could do and they could only hope that in the failing light it would not be easy for the French to trace the origin of the arrows. Equally of course, the failing light would make it difficult for any of them to see a target to hit it and the possibility that they would hit their own men was greatly increased. Their troops were all well informed of their location and would do their best to avoid it. 

The idea was that the French would be forced to approach from the direction of the road. They would ascend the hill and whilst doing so they would be exposed on their right flank to the archers. The archers would fire into the side of the force which would be prevented from turning to attack them by the attack of the men on foot from the north. That was the plan anyway.

Sam appeared at Dean’s elbow almost silently, jolting him out of his thoughts.

“They’re moving across the road,” he said. “They’re trying to be sneaky but I think they know something’s up. They’ll be here in minutes.”

Dean nodded, pulled his bow string from the pouch at his waist and started to string his bow. Once he was satisfied that the string was taught and wouldn’t snap, he opened the canvas sheaf of arrows that he had been given. He took the arrows out and dug them into the floor in front of him. From this position they would be more easily picked. The bag he tied carefully to his waist. Should they need to move position, he needed to be able to carry arrows and he needed to be able to do it fast. 

He looked left and right and saw that the other men were doing as he was. Silently following his lead. Sam had planted his arrows and was running his thumb anxiously up and down his string. Sam had had a string snap once. They’d thought the resulting gash across his cheek would scar him for life, but he had been lucky. 

He looked behind and saw the one or two camp women who were with the force. They had a wagon full of arrows and it was their job to bring fresh sheaves to anyone who raised their hand. Once an archer ran out of arrows he was useless so the supporters were as important as the archers themselves. 

In the last light of the day, they caught their first glimpses of the French advancing up the hill. They moved in an orderly file, slowly, shields raised, ready to engage.

Dean tested his string again. 

“I’ll see you on the other side Sam,” he said.

“See you on the other side Dean,” Sam echoed.

This was the ritual. Before every battle, they said goodbye to each other in the only way they had ever been able to stomach. 

Taking a deep breath, Dean plucked an arrow from the ground and fitted it on his string. From this point, he stopped thinking about the act of taking the shot. He simply looked across the hill and picked his target. He chose a large fleshy man who was half a step behind his fellows in the second line and therefore a clearer target than his companions. He looked at that man and he willed his arrow to hit his target and in the next moment the man fell. Dean only saw him fall out of the corner of his eye, his eyes were already on another target, another arrow was on his string and he was getting into the rhythm of shooting. 

For a minute, the arrows flew thick and fast. Every second men from the French fell and already there were the screams of those who weren’t quite dead echoing through the night air. Then the two sides engaged with each other and the archers work became harder. They had to wait and pick their targets and they had to account for the actions of their own sides. Men too closely locked in combat were not good targets because their man could unknowingly put themselves in danger in seconds. 

Things went well at first. The English held their ground and, on the far side, even seemed to push the French back a little. Then, Dean heard a yell that was not a scream of pain and was far closer than the fallen French men. He jerked his head to the left to see where the sound was coming from and realised suddenly that under the cover of the darkness a small force of French soldiers, likely anticipating the presence of archers, had hung back until the archers had revealed their location and were now attacking them from the side. 

Dean saw the first man in the line, the one who had yelled, cut from belly to chest by a man armed with a huge axe before he could even turn. He died instantly. 

“Run!” he yelled, grabbing at the arrows in the ground and turning to run to the North. His plan was to go through the trees and emerge behind the line of English soldiers. A place of relatively safety. As he started to move he grabbed Sam’s shoulder in an attempt to propel him in the same direction. “Run Sam!” It was the best that Dean could do. He had to keep faith that Sam would know what to do. 

Dean didn’t make it very far before he realised that the French had not only attacked from due South, they had managed to find their way behind their line to the east. The scream of a man to his right was what alerted him and before he had thought about it, Dean had an arrow on his string which was moments later imbedded in the thin neck of a rat faced French man who’d caved in an English archers skull with a mace in such violent fashion that his face had been covered in English blood before it had been covered in his own.

There was a second man behind him. Dean swung his bow over his shoulder and across his back and darted forward and grabbed the fallen Frenchman’s mace. The second man was clearly surprised by the move and didn’t raise his shield quickly enough to block Dean’s first blow. Dean’s mace caught the man on the shoulder, judging from the crunch and the grunt of pain that issued from the man something in the man’s shoulder broke and his shield hung uselessly to one side. The second blow of Dean’s mace was dealt to the man’s helmet. Stunned, the man staggered and dropped to the side, tipping his head back and opening up his face for the killing blow. 

Dean ran back to where he had dropped his arrows, hastily shoving them into the canvas bag at his waist. The woods around him were now full of fighting men. He could see some archers now armed as he was having successfully slain Frenchmen. He saw more being hacked to death. Linen bag of arrows clutched in one hand to avoid stumbling, mace in the other, Dean ran on. His eyes roamed desperately over every body and ran over every fighting pair, looking for Sam. 

As Dean emerged from the trees he could see that the English soldiers, having lost the advantage of the archers were not fairing as well anymore. Somewhere, far behind him and to the west, Dean heard a roar of: “Archers! On me!” It was a command to regroup and Dean recognised the voice. It was Sam. Instead of running north as Dean had, it seemed that Sam had run west. It was a bold idea, to move behind the enemy lines to regroup on the other side of the battle and that was just like Sam. 

Dean was not in such a good position. He could see now that a line of Frenchmen had formed at the western edge of the trees, to prevent any more archers making it out to join Sam. To the east and south armed men still roamed looking for stragglers and to the north the English were losing ground. 

Cursing, Dean turned to the south, reasoning that the French were trying to work north so there would be less danger this way. As he turned, he found that a French soldier was mere inches from him. Before Dean could do anything, Dean saw the handle of the axe whistling towards his face and then he found himself being thrown backwards as pain exploded across his face.

Lying on his back, his bow caught uncomfortably underneath him, Dean saw the shiny edge of the axe hurtling towards him.


	7. Journey on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit of a struggle, so it's a little bit shorter than the others have been. The next one will be better!

The tip of the arrow emerged from the man’s chest, glistening with dark blood having penetrated through his thick gambeson, through his chest and out the other side. Carried by the momentum of the swing, the man fell forward, eyes wide, a spurt of blood erupting from his mouth. Sam rolled to one at the last moment, thanking his lucky stars that the man hadn’t been wearing armour or his head might have found itself separated from his body. He was equally glad, for the second time that day, that he had a brother who knew how to shoot and had an impeccable sense of timing. Only one bow on the field that day, other than his, could shoot an arrow with enough force to skewer a man.

Dean scrambled awkwardly to his feet. It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two since he had started moving south, but in that time everything had changed. Looking up the field he could see that, for some reason, the French troops had scattered and there were now small, disparate clumps of soldiers battling against a newly tightened up line of English soldiers. Step by step, the French line was getting pushed back. 

It was now so dark that as Dean’s eyes probed the inky black on the other side of the battle field he couldn’t see anyone, but he was sure that this was where his salvation had come from and somewhere over there the archers had formed up again and they were the ones making a difference. Dean looked back into the woods behind him and when he had established that there was little danger there now, he pulled his bow off his back. A brief search revealed a handful of arrows. He put all but one in his canvas bag and put the other on the string. Then he started to advance carefully across the back of the field. 

The first man that he shot had clearly decided that he wasn’t getting paid enough to risk his life any longer and had made a run for it. Dean shot him with an arrow through the eye. The second man had been injured and was kneeling, wrapping something around his thigh. Upon seeing Dean he had grabbed for his sword. If he hadn’t done that, Dean would have left him alone. As it was, he had to die. 

Dean found his brother standing at the centre of a much diminished of a line of archers. Sam had a grim expression on his face and a cut just above his eye that was still oozing blood. He gave Dean a tight nod, but gave no more acknowledgements. They still had work to do.

The tide of the battle might have turned, but these things did take time. French soldiers peeled off gradually and as they ran down the hill, the majority were picked off by the watching archers. It was cold blooded. That was just the way of things. The man you didn’t kill today could kill you tomorrow. Both Sam and Dean had struggled with it at various times in their lives, but when death was your business you did get used to it to a certain extent. Just another man. Just another arrow. Just another life over. It was better than your life ending and if you ever stopped feeling like that…well…Dean had met men like that and they were more dangerous than anyone. 

The moon was high in the sky by the time the French forces were fully scattered and Hugo started to order his men to find and bury their dead. The enemy would be piled high and burnt. 

Once he realised that it was really over Dean took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His hands were shaking slightly as the adrenaline bled away. Some men got to the point where they were so used to their trade that they fought with ruthless rationality. Dean always needed the adrenaline kick and he always felt the effects when the adrenaline left his system. Dean saw this as a measure of the fact that he still had some humanity left.

He checked himself over. His arms ached from the strain of drawing and shooting without pause for what, ultimately was more than two hours. The back of his head was sore from where he had fallen and there were numerous other aches and pains. Nothing that was drastic nor in need of immediate attention. He established quickly that the majority of the blood on his hands and arms and tunic was from other people. 

Having satisfied himself that he was going to be fine, he went over to Sam to make sure he was fine too.

“Where’d you go?” Sam asked, whilst unstringing his bow as the other archers scurried away to follow Hugo’s orders. It left them in a moment of calm and isolation to debrief.

“I was trying to get behind our line,” Dean replied. He started to unstring his own bow and almost winced as he felt the tension fall out of it. “I thought you were following me.”

“Got held up,” said Sam, indicating the cut above his eye.

“They had someone tall enough to get up that high?” Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. Sam was easily the tallest man Dean had ever met. It was hard to find men that could go head to shoulder with him let alone face to face.

Sam flushed slightly. “No…er…not quite.”

Dean smelt blood. He started to smile. “What happened?” he asked again.

“Nothing,” said Sam, blushing furiously.

“What did you do?” Dean persisted. “You did something dumb didn’t you.”

“Tree branch,” Sam admitted. “I ran into it.” His hand wandered to the wound and he touched it gingerly and self-consciously. 

Dean’s laugh was equal parts incredulous and amused. “Seriously?”

“Er…yeah,” Sam grinned and gave Dean a look not unlike that of a beloved dog trying to get away with something terrible.

Dean chuckled and put his bloodied hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Never change,” he said. 

The boys from Winchester had survived another day and they were now going to take a well earned rest.

-

The doubts started to sink in before Castiel had been walking for half a day. 

Had he made the right choice in leaving? Where was he going? What would he do when he got there? Should he have gone alone? Did he have any right to meddle in such affairs? Was he capable of surviving out in the woods all by himself?

He was walking along the shaded road that lead directly through the woods to the east. It was relatively easy going. The path was rough and not hugely well maintained. Winter snow and ice had pitted it with holes and, being February, it was still sodden with rainfalls the sun did not yet have the power to dry. Despite that, it was a level path, not overly stony and clear of weeds and logs to trip the careless walker. 

Castiel still found it frustratingly slow going. It had been many years since Castiel had embarked on a long journey and he had forgotten how frustratingly slow walking could be. With the endless woodland and lack of landmarks it was sometimes as though he wasn’t making any progress at all. When he came to long straight parts of the path, he would try to trick himself by looking down at the ground as he walked and not looking up for a while so that when he did look up he would have made noticeable progress. Sometimes he looked up too early and was disheartened to see that he had not made it very far. 

As the sun climbed high in the sky, it’s weak wintery rays piercing through the bare branches to dapple on the ground, the doubtful voices in Castiel’s mind grew to such an extent that he froze in the middle of the path and half turned to go back. That was even stupider of course so he stopped. 

Castiel stood in the middle of the path, still as a statue, unsure of what he should be doing. He struck a lonely and slightly unreal figure, standing there in the bright winter sunshine in his habit. If an artist had turned the image into a tapestry or wood carving it might have represented one of the saints, or an angel, with relative ease.   
It was unclear how long Castiel might have stood there thinking, but a rustling in the woods jolted Castiel out of his thoughts and back into the cold reality of the day. He knew instantly that it was a rustling that was too loud to be an animal. It was also true that the moment he lifted his head to stare in the direction of the sound, the sound was cut off. An animal would have paid no heed to that. It would have continued merrily. So Castiel knew that there was a person in the woods watching him. 

Castiel started walking again. The person in the woods was either friendly or unfriendly and either way Castiel felt like he had an advantage if he was moving. He listened carefully as he walked. Now that he was listening for it he could hear the rustling in the undergrowth quite clearly. For quite some time he walked parallel with the sound, tensed for any change in its direction or intensity.

Eventually Castiel was convinced that whoever it was, was simply content to follow him. Castiel was starting to strongly suspect that he knew who it was who was following him. He continued for a few minutes longer, to try and calm the lingering doubts that in the wood there lurked a dangerous bandit, but then he resolved that he was going to have to face whoever it was at some point so he might as well do it on his own turns. Without warning he turned towards the sound and jumped through the bushes. A few moments later he had a handful of the sleeve of a very familiar brown tunic. 

Gabriel grinned up at him sheepishly from his half crouched position behind the bush. “Father Castiel!” he exclaimed. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

Castiel glared at him. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Gabriel wriggled out of Castiel’s grip and stood up, brushing scraps of leaves from his habit. “I’m coming with you,” he said calmly.

“No you’re not,” said Castiel.

Gabriel looked around theatrically. “I’m sorry, but it really does appear that I am.”

Castiel deepened his frown. “It is dangerous Gabriel.”

Gabriel shrugged. “They attacked Father Thomas in the monastery. Why would we be any safer?”

“How do you know about that?” Castiel demanded.

“Michael might be a good rider, but if he’s looking for a messenger Father Thomas should probably pick someone who understands the concept of discretion,” he paused and then continued. “It would probably also help if Brother Septimus kept documents relating to the cells deepest darkest secrets in a place that’s a little harder to find. What’s in the box Castiel?”

Castiel sighed. There was evidently no point in his trying to deny knowledge at this point. “I don’t know,” he said. “Father Thomas told me not to look.”

“So you’re heading out into the wilderness and you don’t even know what you’re trying to hide?” asked Gabriel incredulously. 

Castiel nodded. It hadn’t crossed his mind in exactly those terms and when it was phrased like that it did sound a little ridiculous, but that was the nature of service. They were bound to serve. Many hot blooded young men like Gabriel struggled with that idea. Castiel hadn’t. He had spent his years in leadership helping men like Gabriel get to grips with service and sacrifice. At this precise moment he wasn’t sure that he had succeeded. 

“How do you know it’s going to be worth it?”

“I don’t,” said Castiel simply. “I trust Father Thomas and he has done enough to deserve my service.”

Gabriel’s expression remained sceptical, but he clearly opted not to push the point. “All the more reason to take me with you,” he argued. “You don’t know what dangers you’re facing.”

It was at this point that Castiel started to lose his temper. “I am not a child, Gabriel,” he said coldly. “I am your Prior and I have led our community well for many years now. You tell me I don’t know the danger I face. What more do you know of the world?” he demanded. “A few whispered conversations with Michael don’t make you an expert. Don’t lecture me about danger. Don’t try and tell me what to do. You should show me some respect.”

He had taken two steps forward as he spoke and he was now standing toe to toe with Gabriel. Gabriel was taller, but he seemed to shrink in the face of Castiel’s anger. It was rarely unleashed and Gabriel was sufficiently cowed. 

They stood in silence for what must have been a full five minutes. Gabriel stared at his shoes. Castiel glared at Gabriel. They waited.

Then Castiel relented and stepped back. “Will you go home Gabriel?” he asked gently. 

With a sigh Gabriel nodded. “I can’t force you to take me with you,” he said, sounding resentful despite the general meaning of his words. After a moment’s hesitation he added, “If you don’t return we will be forced to come looking for you.”

“I wish that you wouldn’t,” said Castiel. He understood however that what Gabriel was saying was that Castiel’s power only lasted as long as they could be reasonably sure that he was alive and intending to return and take up his position. If that moment passed, Gabriel would not feel bound to any promises.

For a brief moment Castiel resented being and feeling responsible for wayward young men like Gabriel. He had sworn himself to a life of service to God, not a life of service to noble born hot heads. He pushed the resentment down, wished Gabriel a safe journey home and then turned resolutely back towards the road and his own onward journey. 

The detour with Gabriel had bitten deep into the afternoon and the sun was starting its downward descent. Castiel was a lonely figure on the road.

-

Sir Hugo was reluctant to say goodbye to Sam and Dean the morning after the battle. Good archers were hard to come by and Hugo was no fool. He knew that his victory had been mostly down to the efforts of the archers thinning the lines from either side and he was suitably grateful. They stood on the field which was damp, not only with morning dew but with blood from the previous day and Sir Hugo made them an offer.

“Fight with me,” he said. “I have fifty archers back with the army who fight under my banner. You could join them. You could lead them.”

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Dean had to fight laughter. They should have left England earlier. They could have had their pick of masters. It was not unusual for men to have divided loyalties. There were more people requiring service than there were trained fighting men around. You would be ultimately loyal to one man who would have the right to call you into service whenever it suited him. However, if that person was not using your skill you were free to sell your services to the highest bidder. It was also not uncommon for your lord to swear your services to another man if it suited him. So the fact that they were Winchester’s men, with a promise to serve a notorious mercenary was not hugely significant. Even if they were to agree to fight for Sir Hugo they probably wouldn’t be as confused in their obligations as some men. Everyone’s loyalty was to the king at the end of the day anyway.

“I appreciate the offer,” Dean said eventually after his and Sam’s silent conversation had finished. “We have something we need to get done. We can’t join up with the army now.”

“It’s a damn shame,” said Hugo. “The Prince needs men in his army who can fight and can think for themselves as well. What does Winchester want men here for anyway?”

The sudden enquiry took Dean slightly by surprise. 

“Messengers,” Sam said quickly. “To monasteries. I speak French so…he sent us.”

It was an utterly unconvincing explanation of their business and Hugo let them know that he knew it by spitting on the floor and shaking his head. “Shit,” he said shortly.

Sam flushed slightly. “The ambassadors are all kept very busy,” he protested.

“Shit,” Sir Hugo repeated more amiably. “What’s Winchester got himself involved in?”

“Not our business to tell,” Dean said levelly. 

“Winchester’s a dear friend of mine,” Hugo said. His expression was unreadable. 

“Never heard him mention you,” Sam said. 

Hugo smiled nastily. “I could make you tell me.”

“No you couldn’t,” Dean said calmly. He didn’t really mean that they could tolerate endless torture or anything quite as heroic as that. He merely meant that he didn’t think Hugo was the type to actually torture his victims. Low class men who rose high were far less inclined to that kind of thing. 

“Why do you want to know anyway?” Sam asked. “What difference does it make to you?”

Hugo’s smile twitched in acknowledgement that this was a fair question. “I like to know all the pieces that are on the board,” he said. “I might not be the man in the big tent who makes the decisions. I take orders more often than I give them. But I like to know what’s going on. I like to know what might be happening. ‘cause when the world is falling apart around me I want to have all the facts and not be relying on someone in a fur lined cape to tell me that there are wolves in the ditch when it’s time to run. I want to have known that so I can build a bridge before we get there. Got it?”

Sam and Dean nodded. They got it. 

“So if someone as powerful as Winchester has two dirty longbow archers wandering around in France while we’re in the middle of a war, I want to know why. It might be making a pit of wolves.”

“We’re not going to tell you what we’re doing.” Dean said firmly. 

Sir Hugo sighed and kicked a clump of blood soaked grass in front of him until it was uprooted. He glared at them. Spat again. Then shrugged and seemed to shake off the issue. “Well go on then. Get out of here. Go on your secret mission and stop wasting my time.”

Neither of them took it seriously. They both knew that it was a relatively fond farewell. Dean didn’t think they would be able to count Sir Hugo as a friend exactly, but he was probably an ally. If Dean found himself side by side with him and his men on the field he would consider himself in good company. 

It felt strange to be back on the road. It had only been a day and a half since Dean had fought for his life with the scout on the road, but it felt like much longer. It was like they had lost the thread of what they were doing. One thing was positive though, Sam had interrogated the man in Hugo’s force who was responsible for their navigation. He had given Sam a fair idea of where they were, allowing Sam to conclude that they were nearly halfway to the region they were heading to. They were getting closer.


	8. New Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I am aware of the slight inaccuracies in terms of when the Black Prince invaded France in 1356 (it wasn’t actually till August) but I needed things to be slightly more pressured for this to work and still get everyone where they need to be for the significant events of September. So as far as I’m concerned Black Prince has been in France for a while!

After another week or so of hard, muddy and cold travel February gave way to March and things started to improve. The combination of the advancing year and the fact that they were moving to the south meant that the weather was all the more pleasant. Their woollen tunics and clothes were wrapped up and relegated to being carried and used as bedding and were replaced with thinner linen tunics. They still wore their gambesons, but at times this left them uncomfortably warm. The filling of their water skins became a more pressing issue and they found themselves travelling in a more meandering fashion to keep them closer to water. It still rained, but the sun now had the power to dry the results of the deluges which, though more intense, were rarer. 

“This is Aquitaine,” Sam said, at around midday on a day about two and a half weeks after they had left Cherbourg. He had gone into the nearby village to trade for some bread and information and had returned to where Dean had been waiting, half asleep under a willow tree by a narrow river. 

“This is what we’re fighting over?” Dean asked, sitting up and looking around at the countryside as though he was going to see something significant. He might not have been as politically conscious as Sam, but even he knew that the entire reason why France and England was at war hinged on the region of Aquitaine. 

Essentially, by virtue of marriage and parentage King Edward held the lands in the Duchy of Gascony in Aquitaine. Holding these lands put him in a position of service to the King of France at the time, King Phillip. This was highly controversial and, when in 1329 Phillip had forced Edward to swear loyalty to him on bended knee…well there had been no going back from that. Relations had deteriorated and when King Edward had claimed that Phillip had no right to the French throne everything had gone to hell. This had all happened before Sam and Dean were even born. 1346 had seen the Battle of Crecy. It was a mighty victory for the English and had cemented the place of the English longbow man in the army. It was probably why the Bishop of Winchester had been so willing to take in two dirty orphans on the strength of the fact that one of them could shoot well. 

Now it was 1356, the war had been in progress for nineteen years already and had at the beginning of the year been given a new lease of life when Edward, The Black Prince of Wales had invaded France and started causing havoc. When Dean had had this patiently explained to him by Sam he had struggled to understand what was so special about Aquitaine that they would waste so much time and effort on reclaiming it and now, standing in it, he understood it even less.

“Why would anyone want to fight over this place?” he asked Sam again, hoping he might get a more detailed answer now. 

Sam shrugged. “It’s not the land. It’s the principal.”

“People are dying Sam.”

“I know.” Sam paused. “Edward has to prove that he’s fit to rule. He has to prove that he is God’s chosen representative and that no one, not Phillip or John, can stand above him. So if Edward is going to have lands in France, he has to have them as a king, not as anything else. Getting rid of John would be a bonus.”

“And that’s why we’re out here. Just to try and prove that God picked Edward to be in charge instead of anyone else,” Dean’s frustration was clear. “Do they have any idea how stupid they sound?”

“What? You don’t think Edward is chosen by God?” Sam asked, interestedly.

“No I don’t Sam.” Dean said, climbing to his feet and wandering over to the river bank. Then he turned back to face his brother. “And I don’t believe that what we eat and drink at Mass is God’s body and blood. It’s just wine and bread. And I don’t believe that the Pope is God’s voice on Earth. I think the King is the King because his father was and I think the Pope is just a man.”

“That’s heresy Dean,” Sam said seriously. “They could excommunicate you for talking like that.”

“What? You’re gonna tell the Bishop?”

“No…”

“Come on, don’t tell me you believe all of that stuff.”

Sam shrugged. “I’ve got faith.”

“Why?” Dean demanded.

“It doesn’t hurt to have a little faith Dean,” said Sam. “After all the stuff we’ve survived…” he shrugged. “I guess it helps me to believe there was someone calling the shots on that.”

Dean looked at his brother in surprise. He hadn’t ever really thought about how genuine his brother’s faith was. He had to admit that he was surprised to find it so strong. 

“You’re surprised,” Sam said, reading his brother’s facial expression easily. 

“Well, yeah. I guess I don’t think God would think we’re very good people.”

“That’s not a reason not to believe in him.”

Dean didn’t want to answer that so he turned back to stare at the river for a few moments. They stood in tableaux for a few moments. Dean was staring across the river and Sam was staring intently at Dean’s back. The sun shone down on them.

“So we’re in Aquitaine,” Dean said eventually. “Any idea where we’re meant to go from here?”

“There’s a monastery, to the east of Albret. Seems like the best place to start,” Sam said. “It’s about a day’s ride from here.”

“A monastery? Bit obvious?”

“Well yeah,” Sam said. “But we can’t go to the secret hiding place because we don’t know where that is yet. Because it’s secret.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said. “Did I ever mention I hate monks?”

Sam rolled his eyes and mounted his horse. Dean chuckled and followed suit. Grumbling aside, he was excited to find that they were nearing the more serious part of their journey. He had been getting sick of endless days of travel.

-

One week after leaving his community Castiel was dangerously close to despair. He had thought that time on the road would inevitably lead to some kind of obvious path. Some kind of inspiration that would tell him what it was that he needed to do. As it was he found himself sitting on some kind of marker stone in the centre of an enormous meadow feeling rather like a raft in the middle of an endless tempest tossed ocean. The unknown stretched endlessly in all directions and he wasn’t sure that he would have been able to retrace his steps and find his way home if he had wanted to. He had wandered rather aimlessly, loosing track of his direction and cursing himself for the mistake. 

He had skirted around the edge of settlements, unsure of the wisdom of making contact with innocents. There was no evidence that hordes of dangerous soldiers were on his heels, but a growing sense of unease had kept Castiel wary. The land still bore some of the scars of recent conflicts and he was not prepared to bring any more suffering onto these people. Unfortunately, as a result, Castiel’s supplies were running low and he was weakening daily. He had settled onto this stone because even the tentative fingers of wintery sunshine had started to feel oppressive and he had needed to rest.

As he ran through the position that he found himself in in his mind, Castiel thought that an external observer would have thought him extraordinarily stupid. Just to leave blindly with no clear plan. But Castiel was used to putting his faith in the hands of invisible higher forces. He might have been the Prior, but that only left practical matters in his control. The bigger picture was dictated by the hands and minds of others and Castiel simply shaped the materials that he found at his disposable in such a way that they would fit into that bigger picture.

Castiel was starting to realise that despite his intelligence and his competency when it came to leading a group of men and making their lands profitable, Castiel had little to no experience of true independence. This was his first taste of being a man entirely responsible for his own life and he was floundering. He cursed himself. He thought hard to try and come to some kind of revelation that would point him in some clear direction. The trouble was that the only thing that Castiel could think of was to find the nearest monastic cell and find aid and shelter there. He was momentarily irritated that he was clearly so dependent on the church that his every instinct was to run back to it like some pet. 

No.

He would not run back to the church. It was from them, in part, that the artefact must remain hidden and he was not going to return it to them because he couldn’t think of how to feed himself out on the road. 

He looked left and right and spied a thin tendril of smoke rising from what must have been a small depression in the land some distance to his west. It was the only sign of civilisation visible. He reasoned that such a small and isolated settlement was unlikely to be visited by any kind of soldier. The lands in which he sat were well tended but not on the industrial scale that one would expect from lands that were important to some great Lord or institution. If the smoke belonged to the home of a tenant farmer then he would be a neglected tenant of some far away Lord who probably didn’t even realise that this place belonged to him. The fact that most of these lands were held by the English in service to the French king made that all the more likely. So no one would ever seek in this place for information regarding the where abouts of a priceless religious artefact. Why would they?

Having thus convinced himself that it was an acceptable risk, Castiel gathered the remains of his strength and turned his feet in the direction of the smoke. 

It took him only a short while to reach his goal and he soon found himself descending a gentle slope towards an old fashioned cottage. It was built in the antique style of the long house. Its most prominent feature was its long sloping eaves that hung so low a man would not to be any great height to be able to touch them with his hand. The yard was sandy and chickens pecked to and fro, unperturbed by the presence of sleeping cats and tied up dogs. There was a pig pen and a wood shed and what looked like a smoking shed which gave off a distinctly fishy smell. It was a well lived in little homestead and it made Castiel smile to see it. It was old fashioned and comfortable and it reminded him of his home.   
His approach had not gone unnoticed by the homes occupants. From the top of the slope Castiel had spotted a young girl standing in the yard. She had bolted into the house at the sight of him and he was sure that he had seen an even smaller figure emerge from the rear of the cottage moments later and disappear towards distant fields. It would seem that no one would remain uninformed of his arrival. He hoped fervently that country suspicions had not expanded so far as to mean that even a man of the cloth could not find welcome here.

He stood a respectful distance from the home and waited. The door to the cottage opened within moments and a formidable looking housewife stepped out, welcome for a moment hidden under a mask of wariness. She was dressed in typical country fashion in a shapeless woollen dress tied at the waist with a leather belt hung with the kinds of tools a farmer’s wife might require. She had on only a close fitting linen cap and no wimple. For a moment this caused Castiel some embarrassment. He could not recall seeing a woman without veil or wimple before. She was a tall woman, solidly built with the layers of muscle that spoke of regular manual labour. Her skin was rough, her cheeks pink and her grey eyes hard. Two small girls were wrapped in her skirts, staring open mouthed at the stranger. 

“Brother,” she said, greeting him respectfully. “Welcome.”

Castiel hastened to answer the question in her tone. “Greetings,” he said. “My name is Castiel. I am passing through these lands, but have lost my way. I was wondering if I might presume upon your hospitality and ask for some guidance.”

The woman’s face relaxed at Castiel’s simple explanation and reassurance that he was not there to try and take their money. It was not uncommon for corrupt monks and priests to travel the countryside declaring folks sinners and demanding payment for indulgences to stave off the threat of the devil and eternal damnation. It was hard to refuse these men and many peasants found themselves paying more than they could afford to a church that already taxed their land. Castiel had never thought too deeply about the finances of his church, but whenever his thoughts had wondered in that direction he had felt uncomfortable. He was eager to reassure these people that they would have no need to fear such greed driven activities from him.

“I’m Helen,” she said. “My boy has run to get my husband from the fields. I’m sure he’ll be able to give you guidance. Hospitality,” her now smiling eyes glittered, “I can take care of that.”

She ushered him into the house which, though smoky, was clean and organised. One of the little girls pulled him to sit on a wooden bench whilst the other poured him a mug of ale from a jug on the large table at the centre of the room. Helen was spooning hot pottage from a cauldron over the fire into a large wooden bowl. 

She handed it to him saying, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a thin monk.”

Castiel smiled weakly at the statement. “I’ve been on the road for over a week.”

His response received a raised eyebrow as Helen took two slices of bread lying on the table and crumbled them into the pottage cauldron to replenish it. Pottage essentially consisted of kitchen leftovers left to stew. Most houses would always have a cauldron of it ready. It was the staple food of the poor. 

“Are you on pilgrimage brother?” she asked curiously. “We hardly ever get holy men in these parts.”

“Something like that,” Castiel replied vaguely, eagerly swallowing spoonful’s of pottage. There were pea shoots in it. And pieces of bacon.

She nodded in satisfaction to see him eat. “That’ll put you right,” she said. 

The back door opened and Helen’s husband entered, flanked by two tall young men and an adolescent boy who must have been their sons. It must be prosperous land, Castiel thought, to support such a large family and keep them all looking so well fed and powerful. The men were dusty from the fields and looked at him curiously.

“Brother Castiel,” Helen informed them. “He’s lost his way,” she added. She took up a dish filled with baked onions and offered them to her men. The act symbolised clearly that there was no threat and the men relaxed, taking seats to eat the treats. “This is my husband, William. And my boys, Richard, Henry, Luke.” Then after a pause she indicated the two girls who were now hovering near their brothers, their faces bathed in admiration. “Margaret and Kate.”

“You are most welcome. We don’t get many holy men in these parts,” said William repeating his wife’s earlier sentiment. “What brings you through these ways?”

“I seek enlightenment,” said Castiel. He hoped it was an appropriately vague and yet informative response that would satisfy them.

“Oh aye?” William said. “Is that to be found here abouts?”

“Possibly,” Castiel said. “Though I’m not sure exactly where I am.” 

William considered that statement. Castiel waited patiently. He well knew that it was perhaps not the simplest matter for William to explain where they were situated. His world was likely no bigger than his nearest market. 

“A days walk in that direction,” he said, indicating with a thumb over his left shoulder, “you come to a river. We call it the Adour.”

Castiel nodded. He knew that rive, but it was lengthy and unless he knew precisely where along its length he was he would be none the wiser.

“A days walk in that direction,” William continued, now pointing in the direction Castiel had come, “you come to a monastery.”

This was more helpful. That could only be the monastery at which Father Thomas was resident and as such was not the direction in which Castiel wished to travel. 

“Which way is Bordeaux?” he asked.

Again, this was given lengthy consideration. “Now that I don’t rightly know,” William said eventually.

“It’ll be up that way,” said Helen, jerking her head in the direction of a point between the two directions William had indicated. She had been busily mixing up the ingredients for the dying of cloth in a metal cauldron, but had clearly still been listening. 

“How do you know that?” William demanded.

Helen didn’t flinch at the gruff tone. “Those soldiers that came through the market. The ones who had a horse gone lame. They were heading to Bordeaux and they were heading that way.”

“They were merchants going to Spain!”

“William,” Helen exclaimed, throwing up her hands in feigned agitation. “Have you gone soft in the head? When have we ever had anyone riding through on their way to Spain? Ignore him,” she said to Castiel. “They were soldiers going to Bordeaux and they went that way.”

“Soldiers? I hope they didn’t cause you any trouble,” said Castiel.

Helen shook her head, resuming her work. “No,” she said. “We don’t have much trouble out here. We’re that far from the road you see. And we’re not rich. And our Lord’s not the type for anyone to quarrel with.”

“Who is your Lord?”

Helen screwed up her eyes and looked to the heavens, then shrugged. “I never can remember the name. William?”

He looked likewise perplexed and shook his head.

Castiel’s smile widened. It seemed he had fallen on a little bubble of isolation that was not touched by the complex politics of the outside world. It was much like his own home. For a crazy moment Castiel contemplated asking if he could leave the box here. If soldiers rode through and demanded nothing more than care for a lame horse it must be a charmed place indeed. It was a stupid thought of course and Castiel dismissed it quickly, but still…it would have been nice. 

It turned out that William was something of an amateur philosopher and it pleased him to have a learned man in the house. He dismissed his sons and daughters to their chores and sat with Castiel in front of him picking his brain on some finer points of scripture. He had a true rustics understanding and his conclusions were often based on misinformation and conjecture but he was passionate and Castiel enjoyed the conversation. The day wore on and soon Helen said there was no sense in him heading out without any supper. Then, when supper was eaten the children asked to hear Castiel tell their favourite parables from the bible and after that it was dark so the family invited Castiel to bed down with them which he gladly did.

For the first time in over a week Castiel laid down his head in safety and in comfort and fell asleep to the familiar sounds created by a room full of people as they settled and slept. For the first time in over a week Castiel slept well.

-

The monastery outside Albret was intimidating. It was more of a castle really, an enormous stone building taller than any for miles around. At its centre there was a cathedral built in the typical lofty, gothic style, reaching for the heavens with impossible ease. Attached to this there was the solid square building that formed the monks living quarters. At the centre, there would be the cloisters, magnificent open walkways designed for personal contemplation. Around this had spring up the town of Albret. A bustling prosperous place that only existed for the glory of the monastery and this was made clear to you as soon as you entered it. You had to pay a penny to a monk in a hut by the bridge to even gain entrance into the town. 

Dean didn’t like it. He wanted to stay as far away from the place as possible, not stand at Sam’s side whilst Sam tried to persuade a bemused monk at the gate that they had urgent important business inside. It was raining again. 

Dean’s French had improved hugely in the time he had been in France so he could just about follow the conversation, but he would have struggled to join in. Sam was very eloquently explaining that they were here on the behalf of the Bishop of Winchester, that they were investigating records, that they were only looking for information and if anyone knew anything about the history of the place and would be willing to give them ten minutes of his time they would be indebted to him.

The young monk in the gatehouse looked bemused. His eyes flickered repeatedly to the bows slung over their shoulders which were in direct conflict with the way that Sam was speaking. Dean had to admit, he was proud of his mother. Had he not been dressed humbly and armed the way he was, he might have passed for an educated man.   
Eventually the young monk agreed to find a more senior man to talk to them and scurried away, locking the gate in their faces to prevent them following. 

“You reckon that’s meant to keep them in or us out?” Dean asked.

“Bit of both probably,” Sam said. “I wonder if they’d let me look at their library.”

“Doubt it,” said Dean. He watched his brother closely. He was staring at the building in front of them with something that could have been described as longing. “You’d love to live in a place like this wouldn’t you,” he said.

Sam blushed slightly. “No,” he said quickly. “No.”

“Yeah you would. Look at you.”

“No,” Sam said more firmly. “No. I like what we do.” His hand wandered to touch the stave of his bow. “I just like to learn as well. I think there’s so much about this world that we don’t know and the answers are all in places like this.” His hand wandered from the wood of his bow to the wood of the gate. “Don’t you want to get your hands on all that knowledge?”

As though it might tell him something, Dean also touched the door. Then felt stupid, dropped his hand and shrugged. “Not really,” he said gruffly. “It’s not for people like us, Sam.”

Sam opened hi s mouth to argue, but broke off when the gate opened again and an older monk came out.

“You work for the Bishop of Winchester?” he asked, suspiciously. He was a hook nosed man with a mean twist to his mouth. 

“Yes,” said Sam. “He has an interest in the history of this place.”

“What interests him?” the man snapped. 

Sam looked around. “Is this the best place to discuss this?” he asked.

The man looked them up and down, eyes lingering on the bows with evident dislike. “You leave your weapons here,” he said. 

It was too important to argue about so Dean reluctantly obeyed and they entered into the silent, secret world of the monastery.


	9. Revelations

The hook nosed monk lead them through a small yard and into the dark, cold, stone hallways of the monastery proper. The place seemed deserted. The regimented life of a monk meant that there was little time for aimless wandering of the hallways. They passed open doors occasionally and could see that within monks were busily working. Some were hunched over writing desks painstakingly copying out bibles of beautifully illuminated pages. Some were working with herbs, mixing medicines. Some seemed simply to be reading and praying. 

Their guide turned left abruptly and they transitioned from the austere cold of the hall into a small room hung with rich tapestries and warmed by a large fire. There was a large square desk in front of the fire covered in papers, candlesticks and heavy gold goblets. The man sat down behind it, pouring wine into one of the goblets before sitting back and glaring at them.

“The Bishop of Winchester does not often send envoys into this part of France,” the man observed. 

Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

“We’re not exactly an envoy,” Sam said slowly. 

The man raised his eyebrows, a slow controlled anger was building in him. “Then why do you use his name to gain access to this holy place?” he demanded. 

“Oh, no. We do work for him. He just didn’t send us here specifically.”

“Explain yourself. And quickly.”

After a brief hesitation in which the thought that they did not yet know this man’s identity passed clearly through Sam’s mind, he started to speak. “We’re looking for information for him. He’s interested in a relic that he believes was once housed in the area. He…” Sam struggled for a suitable explanation for the interest. “He thinks that it was lost and he would like to find it again.”

“What relic?” the man asked quickly. 

“We…er…we don’t really know. We just have a description of the box that it was kept in.”

The man leant back in his chair and sipped his wine thoughtfully. “I’m Brother Bartholomew,” he said. “I’m the sub prior here. We do not keep any relics here and have not for many years. Records of those that we possessed now and have possessed previously are common knowledge. We are meticulously organised and not likely to lose anything of value. Your master will find no information here.”

Dean was getting rapidly frustrated with Bartholomew. Dean might not be able to understand everything that was said, but it was clear that Bartholomew was being purposefully obstructive. His voice dripped with disdain and he was looking at both of them like they were dirt. It was either because he didn’t think much of them or because he was hiding something. Both were equally likely. Dean trusted his brother to handle the man suitably, but he really wanted to jump in and have his say.

As Dean fumed, Sam was speaking again. “If we could just have a look at your records,” he was saying. “We’ll be very quick. The Bishop was very insistent that we look here. He’ll be angry if we don’t.”

It was a low key threat. France or not, an English Bishop outranked the sub prior of a second rate monastery. There was no direct obligation for the monastery to bow to his wishes, but church hierarchy strongly recommended it and it would be a relatively easy matter for the Bishop to make trouble for Albret if he so chose. 

After a moment of cold calculation, Bartholomew relented. “Father Thomas is our oldest resident and one of our record keepers. If anyone can help you then he can. I’ll have someone take you to him.”

-

Castiel woke early to the sounds of the family moving around. The day’s first light was shining palely through the wooden shutters. The men of the family were standing around the fire chewing on crusts of bread in preparation for the day’s work. The little girls were seated at the table already sewing in-between mouthfuls of porridge. 

Castiel took in the quiet domesticity of it for a few moments with a smile on his face. It was similar to mornings in the monastery, but totally different at the same time. There was the same sense of comfortable domesticity, familiarity, routine. The family moved around each other in silence much as the monks did. The monks were bound by the rule of silence but Castiel fancied that even if they were they would have moved in this calm automatic fashion without need for words. 

He suddenly felt a tinge of sadness at the thought that he would have to leave this place so soon. He could see himself living in a place like this, but there was no way that he could risk endangering these people with his presence much longer. The mere fact that they now had knowledge of him meant that their lives were now more dangerous than they had been before. He hoped fervently that their isolated location would protect them. 

Upon getting up, he was quietly handed a bowl of porridge which he ate hungrily standing near the fire to make the most of the warmth whilst it lasted. He watched Helen bustle around her house, packing up some dried meat, bread and other bits and pieces into a scrap of rough linen. 

“We can’t do much for your spiritual quest,” she said, “but I can provide for your body.”

Castiel tried to convince her that she didn’t need to do that. He was aware that despite the fact that this farm looked prosperous most families of this standing couldn’t afford to give food away freely. Helen refused to hear his protests however and when she got to the point where she was practically forcing the package into his bag, Castiel gave in. 

He left quickly, before the temptation to stay grew too great. He was glad of Helen’s offerings later that day when the inevitable hunger started to gnaw at him, but with a sweet wrinkled apple to munch on his travels became far more bearable. 

The ease of travel could not last of course. It was early afternoon when Castiel had his first encounter with soldiers. 

Castiel heard them before he saw them. The familiar sound of horses riding and riding fast floated to him on the air. Castiel looked left and right and realised that he was walking through relatively open country. The nearest woodland cover was quite some distance from the road and Castiel doubted that he could reach it in time to avoid notice. He stepped off the road so that the riders would not accidentally collide with him, but made no further effort to hide himself. He prayed fervently that this would not be the end of his quest and that his robes and position would protect him. 

The horses came into sight. It was a large group, numbering some thirty riders. Far more than anyone would send out on a covert mission to look for a secret artefact. Castiel relaxed slightly, but only slightly. Soldiers were dangerous regardless. He kept walking.

The group of riders drew level with him and, for a moment, Castiel thought that they would carry on by without paying any attention to him. That was until a man halfway down ranks reigned his horse to an abrupt stop. 

“Franciscan?” he demanded in French.

Castiel was so surprised by the question he didn’t answer at first.

“Franciscan?” the man demanded again, more forcefully, anger creeping into his voice. 

“No,” said Castiel. Hoping that it was the right answer. Franciscan’s were the order of monks most commonly found wandering the roads and selling alms and taking donations from the poor. They were unpopular in England and were generally distinctive as they wore generally wore robes of tattered black, had no shoes and were filthy. 

The man on the horse relaxed slightly. “These roads aren’t safe brother,” he said. 

“The Lord’s work does not stop for the conflicts of men,” Castiel replied carefully.

The man’s expression showed that he did not think much of this, but he did not comment. He was clearly in charge of the group and his men had stopped around them. He looked around and then turned his hard eyes back to Castiel.

“Bless us,” he said abruptly.

Again, Castiel was taken aback by the abrupt request. 

The man’s impatience was growing. “Are you deaf?” he growled. “Bless us!”

It was customary for men to dismount and kneel when receiving a blessing, but the men showed no sign of doing so. Instead, they bowed their heads slightly and tried to hold their horses still. Castiel made the sign of the cross and muttered a short blessing. The last words were just out of his mouth when, with a groan that was really more of a sigh, one of the men fell from his horse with two large arrows embedded in his chest. 

There was a split second of silence as the mounted soldiers absorbed the event, then the world exploded in chaos. Arrows were flying through the air, men were shouting, horses were stomping in agitation. Castiel didn’t bother to take the time to process the event. His unconscious mind had absorbed the general vicinity from which the arrow had come and. Without much thought, Castiel turned and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction. He didn’t stop until he found himself under the distance cover of the trees where he collapsed to the floor breathing heavily and praying desperately for the souls of the men who had fallen.

-

Father Thomas was apparently old enough and important enough to be exempt from the general daily work of a monk and to have his own room. He sat in a large wooden chair in a tiny cell that was so packed with books and papers that it looked like they were growing out of the walls and the floor and out of Father Thomas as well. It was hard to pick out where the pile of papers on his lap ended and Father Thomas began. 

“Try not to drool,” Dean muttered to Sam, as his eyes darted around the room with interest. 

Sam glared and nudged him in response. They edged into the crowded room and stood in the only available floor space, inches from Father Thomas’s chair.

“Who are you?” Father Thomas demanded, suspicion and fear in his voice. Dean noticed that the old man’s face bore signs of recent violence.

“I’m Dean,” he said, he’d noticed that the man’s French was accented and he guessed that Thomas would understand him. “This is Sam. We’re the Bishop of Winchester’s men.”

“Winchester?” Thomas’s voice relaxed slightly. “English men?”

“Yes.”

“What business do English men have in a French monastery?” Thomas asked.

“We’re looking for something,” said Sam.

It was impossible to miss the start that Father Thomas gave at that. He moved so suddenly that some of his papers were thrown to the ground. “Why do you think I can help you?” he asked, unsteadily.

“How did you get those bruises?” Dean asked. 

Father Thomas ignored the question. “I’m just an old man,” he said. “I can’t help you with anything.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Dean asked harshly, despite the disapproving glance that Sam gave him. 

“Maybe it would help if we told him what we’re after,” said Sam. “Father Thomas, we’re looking for a relic and we think it may have been held here once.”

“We hold nothing here.”

“That’s what Bartholomew said, but the Bishop has good reason to think different. If you could just check your records…”

“No!” said Father Thomas, raising his chin defiantly. He was possibly the oldest man Dean had ever seen with every inch of skin wrinkled and hands that shook with a combination of age and, at this point, fear. Despite this, his eyes still glinted with life and he seemed to be steeling himself for something.

“Other people have come here asking the same questions haven’t they?” said Dean. “And when you didn’t tell them what they wanted to know they stopped asking nicely.”

“We’re not like that,” Sam hastened to add. “We’re not going to hurt you if you don’t tell us. We’re looking for the Crown of Thorns. We have to find it before the French do.”

“What makes you think the English have any more right to own it than the French?” Father Thomas demanded.

Dean seized onto the most important point. “So you do know something about it?”

Father Thomas made a frustrated noise and threw up his hands, dislodging even more papers. “Tell me this,” he said. “You come here, you run around the place looking for this thing, you find it, you go back and hand it over and what benefit do you get? No answer to that? You benefit nothing. You risk your lives to find this and you’ll get nothing for it.”

“And you’ll get nothing for defending it,” Dean shot back. “And we’ve at least got a fighting chance.”

“A fighting chance…” Father Thomas repeated slowly. “What are you? Soldiers?”

“Archers,” said Dean. 

Father Thomas contemplated this for a few moments. Then he gestured for them to sit. After moving some piles of books, Sam and Dean found themselves hard wooden stools and sat, fighting their frustration at the delay.

“Other men came,” he said. “French soldiers. You’re right. They weren’t nearly as polite with their questions. I told them nothing.”

“That’s all?” Sam asked. 

“No, not all,” was the tired reply. “I panicked. It is of course only a matter of time. There are only so many likely hiding places in this region. They would find it, eventually, if they searched them all.”

“So what did you do?” Sam persisted.

“I sent a messenger to its guardian. I asked him to take it and run.”

“What guardian? Where was it?” Dean demanded.

“La maison de l'agneau. It’s a tiny community. A colony of this place. The crown has lain there safely for years. I didn’t want to risk that place. Not for this. So I sent Brother Michael to tell him to run.”

“Tell who?” Dean leant forward expectantly, not wanting to miss a word. 

“Castiel. The prior. I didn’t tell him what he held, but I told him that no man must take it.”

“So where’s he gone?” Sam asked.

Father Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know. Michael returned and said that Castiel had announced that he would leave, claiming that he was travelling here. Whether that’s what he genuinely intended to do, I don’t know. I suspect not. Never the less he hasn’t arrived here and I’ve had no word of him.”

“So let me get this straight,” said Dean, leaning back in frustration. “This, Castiel, is out there somewhere with the most important relic in the whole of Christendom? One little old monk trying to hide from some of France’s most brutal soldiers? You thought that was the best thing to do with it?”

Father Thomas looked offended. “Castiel isn’t old!” he protested. “He’s one of the most capable men I know and if anyone is going to be able to keep it safe then it’s him.”

Dean rolled his eyes angrily. “Right,” he said. “Perfect.”

Sam placed a warning hand on his brother’s shoulder and took over. “And you don’t know anything about where he might have gone? Where he might have headed?”

Father Thomas shook his head. “As I said, all that Michael could tell me was that Castiel had planned to set out in this direction.”

“Well let’s hope that he had the sense not to do that. If he had tried to come here, would he have arrived by now?” Sam asked.

“Yes. It’s less than a week’s walk.”

“So he’s either gone elsewhere or he’s already dead and this is pointless,” said Dean pessimistically. Then he looked at Sam. “New plan. Guess we’re looking for Castiel.”

-

It was quite some time before Castiel was able to get back on his feet. He hadn’t run that far or that fast since he was a young child and he felt suddenly very unfit. Eventually however he got his breath back and his heart rate returned to normal. He dragged himself onto his unsteady feet and mechanically brushed the leaves from his habit. He walked towards the edge of the woods and peered in the direction of the road. He could see dark shapes, bodies, lying there. In the field, two riderless horses roamed backwards and forwards. 

Castiel contemplated heading out to try and catch one of the horses, but quickly decided that it would probably be more trouble than it was worth. He was not an experienced rider and he knew that was a recipe for serious injury. He retreated back into the woods, conscious of the fact that somewhere in the area there were archers and they were unlikely to take the time to distinguish between enemy soldier and wandering monk. 

At least the men who had seen him would probably have lost the fight and therefore would not be able to tell anyone about the wandering monk that they had seen. As soon as that thought hit him, Castiel felt sickened with himself. He never thought that he would see the day that he would find himself glad to see the deaths of men. That was not what he was supposed to be. 

He walked quickly through the woods, head down, not thinking about the direction in which he travelled, just thinking about getting as far away from the battle that he had witnessed as he could. As a result, he practically fell over the injured man.

The man had hidden himself in a small ditch and tried to cover himself with leaves to hide himself. Castiel tripped on one of the man’s outstretched legs and staggered as the man at his feet groaned as the impact jolted through his injured body. He was young, younger than Castiel, not a man at all, a boy. He was simply dressed and with no visible weapons he was clearly not a soldier. There was a bloody stain across one of his thighs and he had has hands pressed to his lower abdomen. Wide, frightened brown eyes stared up at Castiel from a flushed face. 

“Please,” he begged in rustic French. 

Castiel didn’t know whether the boy was begging for mercy or for help. He knelt beside him, placing his hand against the boy’s forehead and murmuring words of reassurance. The heat emanating from the boy spoke of infection and Castiel closed his eyes and whispered a brief prayer as he realised the boy’s life was very much in God’s hands. 

“Please,” the boy repeated. “Please. They’re all dead…”

“Who are dead?” Castiel asked, as his fingers gently explored the wound on the boy’s leg. It was deep. To the bone and filled with pus.

“All of them,” said the boy. His eyes were glassy and Castiel wasn’t sure that he was really conscious of what was going on around him. That was probably good, because Castiel’s next job was to get a look at his stomach wound. 

“All of who?” Castiel asked, gently lifting the boy’s fingers. They came free with little resistance. There was not much strength left in his limbs. 

“The whole village,” the boy explained. “They came. The English. They burned…everything. My sister…my mother…my father…they left me for dead, but I left…”

Castiel replaced the boy’s fingers and listened as he haltingly recounted the destruction of his village. English soldiers pillaging and burning, killing and destroying in the age old tactic which destroyed a country by destroying its people first. Castiel listened and whispered reassurances, gently stroking at the boys sweaty forehead. He had seen the extent of the wound in the boys stomach. There would be no saving him. Not without someone skilled in the healing arts at hand. Castiel had some skill, but not nearly enough. He didn’t have any equipment either. No needles, no herbs, no sinew to patch the wound…nothing. The boy would die and Castiel would be there when he did.

The boy seemed to gain comfort from Castiel’s presence and he seemed to relax. His breaths came less frantically and his eyes closed. He lay as if asleep. Castiel placed his free hand on the boy’s chest and felt his heart beat weaken, slow and eventually stop. He said a final prayer over the body and stood.

For the first time in a while, Castiel’s anger ran hot. He had known that the English army were in France and that in war the common people were the ones who lost the most, but he had never seen it. He had never before sat by a boy, hacked at by steel weapons and left to die, watching his life slip away. Now he had and the cool intellectual anger that he had felt was replaced by a white hot personal anger. He wanted to scream and rage at the men who had done this. He wanted to sentence them to eternal damnation. He wanted the Lord to smite them where they stood. How could his kind, loving Lord allow this to happen and delay punishment on its perpetrators? He could not fathom it?

He kicked at a pile of leaves as the rage bubbled. He couldn’t even give the boy the proper burial that he deserved because he didn’t have anything to dig a grave with. The boy’s body would lie there in the woods to be desecrated by passing animals just as the bodies of his family would lie and rot in the smouldering remains of his village. 

It wasn’t fair. It was as close to an embodiment of evil as Castiel had ever seen. He resolved at that precise moment that if he ever met an English soldier, then Castiel would not hesitate to take vengeance against them for these atrocities. It was his place as a man of God and a protector of the people. He would not stand by.

-

Father Thomas had a young monk lead them from his room and back towards civilisation. They were both quiet as they digested the information that they had just received. As Sam and Dean walked out through the gate, reunited with their weapons and ready to re-join the normal world, Dean happened to glance back. Bartholomew was standing in the yard and had just been joined by a portly man with tightly curled hair. The two were talking animatedly together. Dean had a horrible feeling that they were the topic of the conversation, and the outcome would not be good. 

Dean had the feeling that he was in the middle of a large game of chess and the board was getting increasingly crowded. For the first time since they had left England, their enemies were starting to gain faces and their targets were becoming more concrete. In some ways Dean was glad of the change. In others, the realisation of how dangerous this mission was going to become was starting to grow. The marks of violence on Father Thomas’s face stood out in Dean’s mind. Men who were willing to attack a priest were dangerous. 

The game was getting serious. The stakes were getting high. Dean smiled as they set out on the road again. Now they were just a couple of hunters and they had their target.


	10. A game of cat and mouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update has taken me a really long time because I have had an atrociously busy couple of months at work. I have two weeks off now though so I’m hoping to get a chapter or two out in that time!

Sam and Dean rode through the night hoping to reach La maison de l'agneau as quickly as they possibly could. Their quarry was on the move, the trail was already cold and every moment counted. The further away from La maison de l'agneau that Castiel moved, the harder he would be to find. His movements would become more unpredictable, the number of potential hiding places would grow and Sam and Dean would be in danger of having to roam the countryside aimlessly in the vain hope that they would find something. 

The journey between the monastery and its distance cell would have taken nearly five days to traverse on foot. On horseback, pausing only to eat and snatch an hour or two of sleep during the darkest part of the night when travel was too treacherous, it took them just under two. 

It was early in the morning when they arrived. The yard and surrounding land was empty, but the sounds of prayer were emanating from a small building that sat in the shadow of the main monastery. Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

“Church?” Dean asked, swinging himself out of the saddle and gesturing theatrically towards the door. 

Sam snorted as he followed suit. “That’d go down well,” he said. “Armed men bargaining in in the middle of prayers. Not the best first impression.”

A slight pursing of his lips and a tip of his head was the only concession that Dean made to the fact that Sam might have a point. There was nowhere obvious to tie up the horses, so Dean improvised by looping the horses bridle around the branch of a tree on the edge of the forest. Clearly exhausted, the horse promptly dropped its neck to graze.  
When Dean turned back, Sam was already in the process of taking a discrete look around, taking a survey of the buildings. Dean joined him, pushing open the doors of storage sheds to inspect the contents and ensuring that there were no unknowns around that might take them by surprise. He was just on the brink of contemplating whether or not he should enter the main monastery building and investigate there himself when the chapel door opened and the monks started to emerge. 

On seeing Sam and Dean, clearly fighting men, they started to hesitate on the threshold, trading glances uncertainly. Visitors were not a common sight here, clearly. Dean couldn’t deny that he found the sight of 15 odd monks dithering around the doorway like headless chickens a little amusing though he kept his smile off his face for fear of Sam’s displeasure 

After a few moments, a man pressed through the crowd, dismissing them to their roles as he went and approached them. 

“Good afternoon gentlemen,” he said in a coolly courteous voice. “I’m Brother Alfred, the acting prior here. Can I help you with something?”

“Prior?” Sam asked, a little incredulously, taking in Alfred’s youthful expression.

A smile. “Older than I look I assure you. Now may I help you?”

“We’re looking for Castiel,” Sam said. 

A shadow passed over Alfred’s face. “Castiel isn’t here.”

This was expected and now there was the problem of how they would press for more information. Alfred looked young, but his icy politeness was very much an armour and it could keep them very much at bay if he was not approached appropriately. Sadly, to Dean’s mind anyway, their morality prevented them from roughing up the prior for information. 

“Yeah, Father Thomas told us that he was called away. We were wondering if you could help us with where he might have gone after.”

Alfred gave them a hard look. “Father Thomas told you? Who are you?”

“I’m Sam, this is my brother Dean. We serve the Bishop of Winchester.”

He was rewarded by the now familiar raised eyebrow and look of surprise. “Englishmen?”

“Yes.” 

“What are two English men doing in Aquitaine? And here of all places?”

Dean looked around them. He didn’t think any of the monks would be a threat, but the one’s whose tasks kept them near to their conversation were clearly eavesdropping. Similarly, the thick wood land could be hiding anyone and Alfred did not seem to be troubling himself to keep his voice down. Dean reached forward and touched his brother’s arms before he could respond.

“Let’s take this inside,” he said in a low voice. 

Sam nodded his agreement. “Do you mind…”

“If we speak more privately?” Alfred asked in flawless English. “We are all educated men here,” he said in response to their surprised expressions. 

He lead them into the main building and through into the prior’s chamber. He did not sit, neither did they. The two parties faced each other like gladiators. Each of them ready to fight their corner until the bitter end. 

“Look,” said Dean after a moment’s pause. “We’re not here to hurt you or any of your monks and we’re not here because we want to hurt Castiel. We’re not interested in you. We’re only interested in an object and as soon as we have it or know where it is we’ll be out of here and you won’t have to worry about us at all. Understand?”

Alfred ignored the extraneous details of the speech and seized upon one detail. “You seek an object?” he asked flatly. 

“Yes.”

“We are not great advocates of material possession,” Alfred said, dryly.

“It’s an artefact. A relic,” Sam said.

“We’re not particularly interested in those either,” was the inflexible response. “We make cheese here. And honey. We don’t store valuable artefacts. Be gone gentlemen. There is nothing for you here.”

“We know that!” Dean exclaimed in frustration. “We know it isn’t here anymore. We know that Castiel took it and we know that if we find him we’ll find the artefact.”

Alfred paused for a moment, wandered to the desk and sat in the chair there, his expression more calculating now. Sam took the opportunity to investigate the cabinet against the wall. Alfred watched the exploration dispassionately.

“We have nothing of value here,” he repeated. Then sighed. “If we did…” he broke off, tapping his hand absent minded on the desk for a few moments before leaning forward and speaking with a new intensity. “You seem to know more about it than I do,” he said. “Through God’s grace we have lived peacefully here and we have not troubled ourselves with worldly concerns. We do not keep relics here. We barely have anything of value for the alter. Up until last week I would have told you that with up most certainty and not felt any need to confess my dishonesty thereafter.”

“But now?” Dean asked.

“Now…Well now things are a little more complicated.” Alfred considered the two of them for a moment longer. “I cannot lie,” he said. “Equally, what I am about to tell you is nothing but speculation based on instinct, half remembered stories and fire side conjecture. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Dean. He was starting to fully appreciate that, like so many of the religious men that they had encountered on their journey so far, Alfred was far more formidable than he appeared at first. Dean was re-evaluating his image of fat idiot monks living happily on the hard work of others. 

“Anything that you can tell us will help,” Sam was saying, in an effort to prompt Alfred into full confession. 

“Castiel said that he was travelling to Albret to conduct business. That would be unusual, but not unheard of. I would have thought nothing of it, but Michael – the young man who brought Castiel his summons – is an indiscrete man. He confided in one of our novices, Gabriel, that all was not well at Albret. Michael is indiscrete and he is equally not unintelligent. He thought that it was highly unlikely that Castiel was headed for Albret. Though the real direction of Castiel’s departure he could not guess.”

“There’d better be more than that,” Dean growled, after Alfred paused for a few moments too long. 

“Of course. I have known Castiel for his entire life and I was concerned. Equally, I have known Gabriel for long enough to know when he is hiding something. On the day of Castiel’s departure, Gabriel volunteered to gather wood from deep in the forest. Gabriel is not an active man at the best of the times and I was suspicious of his request. I let him be, however. It is not my way to force my men to follow God’s will. They must come to it in their own way and as such, I do not attempt to shield them from temptation. 

“When Gabriel returned I watched him closely and I knew that he had done wrong. I equally knew that he would not come to me to ease his soul, nor to any of the senior monks who would likely pass the confidence to me were it necessary. Later that day I saw him slip away with another of the novices. I must confess that I employed deception and followed,” Alfred blushed slightly at the confession and his hand wandered to his wooden cross. “I deemed it a prudent step and had only the purest intentions.”

“I’m sure God won’t judge you too harshly,” Dean said, sarcasm clear in his tone. 

“Indeed,” Alfred replied, annoyed. 

Sam glared at his brother, who mumbled an apology and gestured for Alfred to keep talking. 

“I followed them and I overheard Gabriel discussing his adventures of the day with Inias. He described following Castiel, on a route to the east, not the way to Albret at all. He said that Castiel had confessed to carrying an item of great worth and that he was serving a man rather than God in so doing.” Alfred sighed. “I can’t tell you much more than that,” he said. “Castiel did not go towards Albret, he went to the east and he was carrying something. I am concerned for him,” Alfred confessed. “I gather that you are not the only one’s hunting him.”

“No,” Sam said. 

“What kind of a man is Castiel?” Dean asked. “Think he’s gonna have gotten far?”

“Oh yes,” Alfred nodded. “Castiel is a great man. I’ve not seen him fail. Whatever task he has elected to complete he will see done, whatever it may cost him.”

-

The boy’s description of his village had been such that Castiel could easily turn his feet in that direction. He didn’t rightly know why he had chosen to go that way, but he felt obligated to. The danger of encountering soldiers aside, he did not like the thought of a whole village full of people dying and being left, unnoticed and unmarked without the sacred rites to ease their passing and guide their spirits to salvation. 

The village was roughly half an hour’s walk from where he had left the boy and he marvelled that someone so injured could have dragged themselves so far. Fear could make someone do astonishing things Castiel reckoned. He entered the place cautiously. The village was built around the bend of a small stream and the land around it was cleared for the sake of animals and some minor planting. Or it had been, now it was a burned mess littered with the bodies of animals and people. 

Castiel moved slowly through the plain and paused at each body. They had all died messily, hacked down as they ran for their lives. Men, women and children lay face down with their backs and heads marred by grotesque injuries. Some would have died instantly, their skulls caved in, some would have died more lingering deaths. Castiel knew that it took time to bleed to death and that was surely what would have happened to many of these. Swallowing his revulsion and rage, Castiel knelt at each of their sides and murmured a prayer for them. 

When he reached the centre of the village the carnage increased. Most of the buildings were half burnt and it was clear that many of the villagers had been trapped in the buildings as they burnt so there was the unsettling smell of charred human flesh circulating on the air. Castiel did not dare to venture into the unstable wreckage of the wooden huts and so had to content himself with saying a blessing over the buildings as a whole, unaware of who might have found their final resting place there.

In the main village square, a line of young women lay in various states of undress, their throats cut in a far more scientific fashion than the friends and relatives that lay about. Castiel could well imagine the reason for this and his hands shook as he gathered up scattered clothing to cover them and preserve their modesty. He wanted desperately to bury them, but to dig a grave of the required size was utterly beyond him. 

He stood in the centre of the fire and blood and felt utterly helpless in the face of such senseless destruction. What could he do? What could the church do to combat this? Nothing. Neither he nor they could do a thing when men came with steel. For a moment, he wished that he was not a monk. He wished that he was a strong young nobleman with horse and sword and men who could look at this atrocity and ride forth to avenge it. Who could wreck destruction and revenge on the men who would treat innocent peoples with such cruelty. 

Imagining his violent revenge, Castiel’s anger raged to such an extent that he did something that he could not remember since his childhood. He allowed himself to lose his temper. In helpless, blind rage he stormed around the square. He clutched at chairs and tables that had survived the original destruction and flung them to the floor. He kicked at heaps of abandoned belongings scattering scraps of pottery and cloth across the floor. He screamed out his anger and frustration and then he stopped. Slumped to his knees and dropped his head, breathing heavily and reeling from the emotions that had flooded through him to add to the chaos. 

He felt not unlike what he imagined Jesus must have felt like when he found the gamblers in the temple and cast them out. A righteous anger. A godly anger. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and looked up, staring destruction in the face again. He felt shame that he had added to the damage and whilst his anger was certainly righteous and good, the resulted action was not. He was a man of God, not of the sword and if he were to meet this with more violence he would simply plunge himself into sin alongside those that so disgusted him.

He clambered to his feet. There was nothing more that he could do here. He had very little sense of what direction he was travelling in now. He knew, simply, that he was not near Albret. So, with little thought to the matter, he passed through the village and followed the track that emerged on its far side. He grasped his walking staff hard, ready to defend himself if necessary. 

He entered the woods, feeling glad to be under cover again, though, unbeknownst to him. He was not travelling entirely unobserved any more. 

-

Sam and Dean stood in the monasteries yard, ostensibly rubbing down their horses and feeding them the mixture with which Alfred had happily supplied him. In reality, they were discussing their next move.

“Our Castiel sounds like a capable man,” Sam was saying. “He’s not going to be easy to track down.”

“He’s a monk,” Dean replied dismissively. “Capable or not he’s still a monk and he hasn’t got a clue about how to hide his tracks.”

“Should never underestimate your enemy.”

“He’s not our enemy! He’s just a guy who doesn’t know what he’s got himself caught up in. He’s just some guy.”

Sam raised his hands defensively. “All I’m saying is he has all of France to hide in and he knows the place a damn sight better than we do. Plus, he’s a monk. People are going to want to help him. They’re not going to want to help us.” To emphasise his last statement he indicated the bows strung over their shoulders. 

Dean grunted. He pulled the bow into his hands and felt up and down its length, checking that it was still firm and sound. “I don’t like this,” he said morosely. “This isn’t us. We should be with the Prince’s army right now, doing our job.”

“Our job is to do whatever our Lord commands,” Sam replied, a little sourly.

“Bollocks,” Dean said instantly. “Our job is to kill people and kill them fast from far away before they can kill us. That’s our job.” He strung the bow and pulled back the string, enjoying the feel of the power under his fingertips. 

Sam watched him casually. “You want some time alone with that thing?” he asked teasingly. 

Dean rolled his eyes, but the joke was enough to prompt him to give a concession to Sam’s earlier point. “We serve our Lord, but we serve him in our way. That’s the deal. This isn’t part of the deal.”

Sam’s expression said clearly that he wasn’t sure that it mattered, but he wasn’t going to argue the semantics. “Well, whatever reason we’re doing it for we’re making progress. We head east and we just keep asking if anyone’s seen a monk passing through.”

“Good plan,” said Dean. “Really ingenious.”

“Oh and you have a better idea?”

Dean shrugged. “That Gabriel guy might be worth talking to.”

“Alfred said he told us everything he knew.”

“Always best to go to the source Sammy,” said Dean, tapping Sam’s chest patronisingly and heading out towards the gardens where Alfred had told them Gabriel might be found.   
Gabriel was instantly on his guard when they approached and there was enough in his bearing and expression to mark him out as someone whose start in life had probably been closer to Sam and Dean’s than the more refined Alfred. Dean reckoned that they could talk to him.

“I’m Sam, this is my brother Dean. Father Alfred suggested you might be able to help us with a couple of questions.”

Gabriel’s expression was unreadable. “I don’t see why,” he said a little haughtily. 

“You followed Castiel when he left,” said Dean, bluntly.

Surprise flickered across Gabriel’s face. “Father Alfred told you that?” 

“He’s a clever man,” Sam said. “I’m not sure you’ve got many secrets he doesn’t know about.”

Gabriel smiled a slow, devious smile. “Well I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “Alright. I followed Castiel and he told me everything about his errand as I’m sure Alfred told you if he does indeed know everything.” He paused for conformation and both Sam and Dean nodded to show they did indeed know this. “If you know all of this then why are you speaking to me?”

“Tell us yourself. What was Castiel’s errand?” Dean asked.

“He’s taking a box with a mysterious artefact in it and he’s going to hide it away somewhere in deepest darkest France.”

“Why wouldn’t he take you with him?” Sam asked. 

“Too dangerous he said. Didn’t want to see me get hurt.”

“Why would he think it was dangerous?” Sam pressed.

“Probably because of what happened to Father Thomas.”

“So he didn’t think there was anybody specific after him? He was just generally worried?” 

“So it would seem,” said Gabriel. “I’m sorry, I’m sure this is all very fascinating for you, but I have to weed this entire patch today or I’ll be on half rations tonight so if you’ll excuse me…”

Sam and Dean took the hint and walked away. 

“Checks out,” said Sam as they left. “Now can we go east?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. “Let’s go east. But first, let’s get some sleep.”

There were no arguments from Sam on that score and, after saying their goodbyes, they walked into the woods where it was dark and cool and settled down to catch some rest before continuing on their search. 

-

Castiel didn’t make it far into the woods before his whole world descended into hellish chaos. He had no hint at all that he was being followed, until two men appeared out of the bushes. One of them grabbed him from behind and held him fast whilst the other held a knife to his throat. 

They were rough men. Hard men. Their faces were scarred, their teeth were yellowed and their hands were filthy. 

“Who are you?” the one with the knife demanded in English. “What were you doing in that village? Why are you following us?”

“I’m Castiel,” he tried to speak calmly. “I’m a monk. I’m travelling. I’m not following you. I have nothing to do with you. I just wanted to give the people there the last rites.”

The knife wielding man spat onto the floor. “Just wanted to give them the last rites,” he repeated, mockingly. “Lies,” he hissed, pressing the knife harder against Castiel’s neck. 

“French spy,” the man holding his arms said and his hot breath on Castiel’s neck made him squirm. The response was typically violent. The man shook him violently and Castiel felt the blade pierce the skin. 

“I’m not a spy,” Castiel said, as calmly as he could. “I’m a monk. I’m travelling.”

“No one would be foolish enough to travel these lands in these times,” the knife man said. 

“Please. Just let me go. I mean you no harm. I don’t even know who you are,” Castiel added desperately. 

Both men laughed nastily at that. 

“Don’t know who we are?” the knife man echoed. He leant in close so that his foul breath played across Castiel’s face. “Soon enough you’re not going to be able to forget us.”

“You’re coming with us,” the second man said. 

They produced a length of rope from somewhere and Castiel’s wrists and elbows were tied together so tightly that an ache in his shoulders began instantaneously. He knew that he would need all of his inner strength to tolerate the pain. Who knew how long he would be forced to endure. He forced himself to breath evenly. In his mind, he was reciting prayers and blessings over and over to keep fear at bay as the two men pulled him through the thick woodland. 

They did not have to go far. They soon came upon a rough camp set up amongst the trees. All the men were of similar ilk to the two that were transporting him and they lay around drinking ale that had probably been stolen from the village. Castiel was relatively certain that these were the people who had attacked the village and he was struggling to keep a lid not only on his fear but the anger that he felt towards them too. 

They took him straight to the centre of the camp where a man was lounging on top of an iron bound wooden chest drinking from a large mug of ale and laughing loudly at the vulgar talk of the men around him. He was a dark man. Slim, with long limbs that looked like spiders legs and a cruel face. When he spoke his voice was curiously gravelly and he seemed to have to force each word out between his thin lips.

“What do we have here?” he asked as the men approached with Castiel. “If we knew this was what you fancied in your bed Robert we’d have stopped letting all those pretty girls force themselves on you.”

The assembled men laughed, Castiel flinched at the crudeness of the jest and Robert, the man with the knife, glowered dimly. 

“He was following us,” Robert said.

“Was he now?” the man said, straightening up a little. “Why?”

“French spy,” Castiel’s other captor said excitedly. 

Robert shot him a nasty look, “let the monk answer.”

“I wasn’t following you. I’m a traveller.”

“Travelling where?” the man asked instantly. 

Castiel hesitated.

There were jeers and mutters of spy and traitor from amongst those listening.

“No answer?” the man asked, in a mocking tone. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

“Please let me go. I have done nothing to you.”

“That’s not the answer I want,” the man said. He seemed to consider for a moment. “I’m Sir Alastair,” he said eventually. “You’re now my guest. Put his somewhere over there.” He waved vaguely towards the edge of the camp. “We’ll see if he’s more cooperative a little later.”


	11. A chance encounter

Sam and Dean’s journey east was uniquely frustrating. Initially it was easy. They followed the path until the point where Gabriel said he had last seen Castiel. After that, it was guess work. They reasoned that Castiel was an inexperienced traveller with only superficial fitness and would always opt for the easiest route and so they did the same, but there were no clues and each turn came with added uncertainty.

“This is pointless Sam,” Dean growled out eventually as they stood at the top of a small incline in the road, drawing breath and taking a well-deserved drink from the river they’d found. “We’re not gonna find him like this. We’re just wasting time here.”

“Well what do you think we should do?” Sam asked shortly. “We know where he was and we know he went in this general direction. That’s all we have to go on.”

“Well it’s not much,” Dean snapped. 

“No it isn’t, but we never had much to go on.”

“So what are we gonna do? Just wander around France for the rest of our lives just in case we might run into this guy?”

Sam shrugged. “Well you got us exiled from England so...”

“You didn’t have to come with me.”

“You know that I would never leave you. You’d just do something stupid again.”

“That is…”

Dean was interrupted as Sam placed a hand on his shoulder having caught sight of something on the horizon. 

“Does that look like smoke to you?” Sam asked. 

Dean screwed his eyes up and peered into the distance. “Yeah, it does.”

“Could be a village.”

“Could be,” Dean agreed. 

“Could go…ask?”

“This isn’t any better than your old plan,” Dean said grumpily. Then, imitating Sam’s voice, “hello there, have you seen any suspicious monks walking through here? Perhaps carrying a mysterious and vulnerable package.”

“You’re not funny Dean,” Sam snapped, gathering the reigns of his horse and striding off in the direction of the smoke.

Dean chuckled to himself and followed. It didn’t take them very long to realise that the smoke was not the standard smoke of a well-tended kitchen fire. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen a village raided and burnt to the ground so they recognised the signs as soon as they established that the smoke was much darker and thicker and more widespread than might have been expected. Having exchanged a wordless glance they both strung their bows and fitted arrows to the string. Raiders didn’t often stick around at the site of their atrocities for very long but there’s never any point in taking risks. 

They walked through the village carefully, trying not to dwell too much on the faces of the corpses laid at their feet. You never looked them in the face. Dean had learnt that fairly early on. There was little to be gained in dwelling on the faces of the atrocities you witnessed. It was horrible. Terrible. Dean acknowledged it on an academic level and then refused to feel emotion. Besides, these people had been dead several days and that meant that they were already looking more grotesque than normal.

Sam wasn’t as detached as Dean was. Whilst Dean observed the particulars of the attack and tried to understand who might have done it, why and how exactly, Sam was looking at the people and the sights were fuelling a cold anger in his young mind. It also allowed him to observe something that Dean had missed.

“Dean, how many times have you see soldiers cover up their victims when they’re finished with them?”

“Huh?” Dean pulled his gaze away from the smoking remains of what must have been the village’s most impressive house.

“How often do you see men put a woman’s clothes back on?”

Confused by Sam’s question, Dean joined him where he was standing looking at the line of pretty young girls who had been selected for the post violence entertainment. He blinked when he realised what was prompting Sam’s question.

“Never. I never see that,” he said after his eyes had fully taken in what he was seeing.

“So, what, raiding parties have morals now?” Sam asked sarcastically.

“One explanation,” Dean replied. “Or…someone else has been here.”

“Is that relevant to us?” Sam asked.

Dean shrugged, “could be.”

“Are you suggesting…?”

“It wouldn’t be the biggest coincidence ever to occur on this earth,” said Dean. “Morality is in low supply in these areas. A wandering monk is the perfect candidate to see this, take exception and want to make a difference.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s our wandering monk,” Sam said.

“It’s a better path to follow than just moving steadily to the east.”

Sam grudgingly accepted that statement and then pointed to the ground on the far side of the square in which they were standing. “The tracks all go into that treeline.”

Dean followed his line of sight. There was a clear line of foot prints leading into the thick trees about fifty meters from the village. There were other foot prints around, but they were confused and scuffed, the imprints of a few hours of frenzied violence and beyond either of their skill to follow. The one set of footprints on the other hand were an easy matter. 

“Let’s go then,” Dean said, suiting action to the word and tying up his horse inside a relatively untouched storage building that stood nearby. There was no way you could subtly follow someone with two horses in tow. 

They moved into the woodland stealthily, arrows nocked and ready. It wasn’t long before it became clear that they were not the first to go that way. Something of a regular path was clearly in the process of construction. Perhaps the raiders had not gone as far as they’d thought. There were more supplies in the village than they could have carried off in one go. Perhaps the place was still being plundered. Dean tightened his grip on his bow and moved further with greater caution.

-

Castiel was starting to regret just about everything that he had done in the days leading up to his being tied to a tree with his arms pinned uncomfortably behind his back so that he had long lost all feeling in them except for a dull aching pain. That was the main reason for his regret. Castiel was not afraid of pain, not in the least, but he was still human and the impact of nearly two days of constant pain was taking its toll.

Since his introduction to Sir Alastair he had been left primarily alone. It seemed that Alastair’s threat to interrogate him later had not been particularly sincere. In fact, the group of men didn’t seem to have much use for him except for aiming the odd frustrated kick or punch in his direction. 

They were a ragged bunch of men. They were rude, often drunk and utterly unrefined. They were English, but seemed to have no clear allegiance to England’s forces. Castiel overheard vague talk of joining the main army but constantly with each declaration came the question of how they might benefit, what financial reward they could find in doing so. Always the answer seemed to be that no financial incentive had yet been offered.

Castiel started to doubt that Sir Alastair was genuinely a knight as his title implied. He suspected that Alastair was simply some kind of mercenary leader who was using the title to add a veneer of respectability to his activities. He’d heard of these kinds of men, but as a sort of distant nightmare, not as a reality. Not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined sitting in one of their camps waiting for what seemed like an inevitable death. 

He watched with disinterest as the men moved around the camp. His tree was at a little distance form where the men slept and ate and drank and watching them was his only source of entertainment and distraction. He was cold and in pain and so lethargic that he would probably have missed the sound if it hadn’t been for the fact that the men were currently squabbling about some small spoils that a raiding party had brought back.

The low whistle just about registered in his ears and his head whipped round as he strained to see where the sound had originated. He couldn’t locate any new figures for several minutes. Then, slowly, two young men emerged from the trees. 

They weren’t focused on Castiel, their eyes were locked on the men crowded in the far corner of the camp, but Castiel was close enough to get a good look at them. They were both young, but tall and powerfully built. The taller of the two also looked the younger. He had longish brown hair and an open, kindly face. The smaller of the two was more intense in his facial expression. His hair was shorter and everything about him was harder, colder and more organised. The way they moved was stealthy and Castiel guessed that they were not interested in alerting the raiders to their presence before it was necessary. 

“Free the prisoner?” the taller of the two men whispered.

The shorter man’s eyes darted down to Castiel, roaming over his clothing for a second before he briefly shook his head. “Not until we know who he is, who they are and why this one’s the prisoner.”

“They’re English,”Castiel said with some difficulty, in the lowest voice he could muster. He spoke English, he was an educated man after all and spoke many languages, but he had little cause to use the skill and as such the words came to him slowly. “They’re…rough men.”

The shorter man looked him over again with a greater curiosity in his eyes this time. “English mercenaries,” he mumbled. “Look friendly too.”

“Not our fight,” the tall one said, looking as though he was going to turn around and disappear back into the forest that second. Castiel felt a surge of panic at the thought that someone who might be able to rescue him should appear and disappear so rapidly. 

The shorter one looked like he was about to say something, but then his eyes darkened, the bow rose in his hands and an arrow darted silently across the camp. On the other side of the clearing, a man holding a bow fell dead with a gurgle and an arrow in his throat. 

The battle that followed was brief. The two new arrivals fired several arrows at the approaching men, sending several to their deaths. But there were many men in the camp and there were only two of them and soon they had no choice but to surrender or be killed. 

“Alright alright,” the short one said, throwing his bow down to the floor with clear reluctance. “You attacked us,” he said as an incensed Alastair appeared brandishing his sword.   
Castiel thought the scene was a little surreal. There he was, sitting tied to a tree whilst a savage band of mercenaries bristling with weapons surrounded two robin hood types one of whom was grinning like he was having the time of his life whilst the other looked like he wanted nothing better than to tear the world apart. Castiel did not like the turn that his thoughts were taking and forced himself to focus.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Alastair demanded. “You’d better talk quick or I’m going to start hacking things off.”

The shorter man held up his hands defensively, “I’m Dean, this is Sam. We saw the damage you did down at the village.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” Alastair said dangerously. He sheathed his sword and drew out a lethal looking dagger, the edges glinting in the sunlight. He stepped closer to the one called Dean and ran the blade across his cheek threateningly.

Dean did not seem overly concerned or threatened and simply moved his head so that the blade slid harmlessly to one side.

“I like to know who might start shooting at me,” Dean said. 

A nasty smile, “we pose you no threat.”

The other man, Sam, scoffed. “Yeah, like you didn’t pose a threat to the villagers.”

Alastair moved quickly, the knife flashed and Sam was staggering back with his hand pressed to a cheek that was bleeding liberally. Dean’s reaction was instantaneous. He lunged forward to grab the front of Alastair’s tunic whilst raising his hand to punch him hard. He didn’t get very far. Castiel winced as he watched the two men being beaten into stunned submission. Limp, bloodied, they were eventually tied to their own trees next to Castiel whilst Alastair retreated into his camp muttering dire threats against all three of his captives. Just as soon as he was drunk enough to really enjoy it. 

-

Dean watched Sam’s face anxiously for signs of life. He’d woken as the sun was setting and it was now well dark and Sam still hadn’t stirred. The wound on his cheek had stopped bleeding so freely, but with each flicker of the far away camp fire Dean could see that the stains freely covering his tunic. It made his stomach flip with sick worry.   
He darted a glance towards the other prisoner. He saw a man of approximately his own age, dark haired and bright eyed with a calm and serene expression. He had made one attempt to speak to Dean, but, worried about his brother, Dean had shut him down mercilessly. The man hadn’t attempted it again. Now that the worry for Sam was dulling into a deep, familiar, ache, Dean’s interest in the man was growing. 

He looked at him again. Still a young man, tired, dirty and bruised with his eyes closed and head leant back against a tree. None of these details were as interesting to Dean in that moment than the fact that this young man was wearing the robes of a monk. He smiled. Sam was going to hate it when he pointed out that he had been right. Just as soon as Sam woke up…

“Are you awake?” he asked weakly and was rewarded by the instant opening of bright eyes, clear and coherent. 

“I am,” the man replied calmly. His eyes wandered to Sam. “Is he awake?”

“No, not yet,” Dean said. “Who are you?”

The man closed his eyes again and then laughed softly. “I’m a monk.”

“A monk with a name?” Dean probed.

“Castiel,” the man replied.

Dean was thankful it was dark or Castiel would certainly have noticed the startled expression on his face. 

“So Castiel, what did you do to get in this mess?”

Another tired laugh, “I walked right into the lion’s den.”

“I thought monks stayed in monasteries these days. Not many on the roads anymore.”

“I was taken from my cell on unavoidable business,” Castiel replied evasively. “What brings two English archers into the French countryside?”

“We left the country on unavoidable business,” Dean echoed. He was rewarded with a more genuine chuckle this time.

A groan drew their attention. Sam stirred and rolled his head. 

“Sammy? Are you ok?” Dean asked, struggling against the ropes around in his arm to try and get closer to his brother.

Sam made an indistinct noise before opening his eyes. “Dean,” he mumbled. “What happened?”

“Sir Alastair is not our biggest fan.”

“Is anyone?” Sam asked, blinking hard to try and refocus. 

“Hey Sam. Meet Castiel, our fellow prisoner.”

Sam’s face scrunched up. “Castiel?” he asked incredulously. 

“Yeah, good name isn’t it?” said Dean significantly.

“Yeah, good name,” Sam agreed. “So how are we going to get out of this mess?”

Dean wriggled his arms to test the strength of the ropes around him. As he’d established as soon as he woke up they were tight enough that he could barely move and inch to save himself. “I’m working on a plan,” he said.

“Will you take me with you?” Castiel asked. 

“We could…” Sam said, trying not to sound too eager. 

“And…”Castiel hesitated. “Those men took something of mine. Something I need. I can’t get it back by myself.”

Sam and Dean exchanged another glance. 

“Whatever it is, we can leave it behind. It’s going to be hard enough getting us out,” Dean said, carefully trying to trap Castiel into revealing enough that they could be absolutely sure that he had what they sought.

“I can’t leave without it,” Castiel said seriously. “Please. I can’t explain the importance of it but it is imperative that it does not remain the possession of men like this.”

Another look flew between Sam and Dean. 

“Are you devout men?” Castiel asked, watching their silence. 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “He is,” he said, jerking his head in Sam’s direction. “I’m a little more sceptical.”

Castiel turned his appeal directly towards Sam. Dean felt a spark of anger at the change. “Please Sam. If you do this you will be serving God and doing his work here on earth. Not many men have the chance to give him such profound service. You have no choice in this Sam. If you love your God you have no choice.”

“Dean we have to help him,” Sam said.

“Sam…”

“No. Like he says. This isn’t for us. This is for the lord and we can’t turn down his work.”

Dean sighed. “Fine. Ok. We’ll try and find a way out for you and your…thing.” He wriggled his arms and sighed again, deeply. “Somehow.”


	12. The Prisoner

It was less the case that Dean came up with a plan, it was more that a plan hit him around the head. Literally. A French monk was one thing. Two English archers was quite another. Alastair had left Castiel pretty much alone after their initial interview because there wasn’t much to be gained from a monk and even the most Godless of outlaws would think twice about killing one in cold blood. When two men armed with the deadliest weapon to grace the battlefields of the day fell into your hands that provided a lot of opportunities. The one that interested most of the camp on this occasion was the opportunity for some sport. 

Alastair was angry. The dead men’s friends were angry. And these men might not be French but they were mercenaries and they had been on the wrong side of the English longbow enough times to not be adverse to a little bit of revenge. 

The drink flowed and voices rose and the laughter became all the more raucous. Dean struggled desperately to think of something that they could do to get themselves out. Sam was watching him with patient faith that all would go well and Castiel was watching him with calm scepticism. The pressure was killing him and his thought process might best have been described as ‘chaotic.’

He didn’t need to worry though. The laughter from the camp rose even higher and then started to move closer. 

Dean and Sam were freed from their bonds by a gaggle of drunken man, who laughed and joked whilst handling them about as tenderly as firewood. Dean’s arms and legs were so sore that for the first few steps the pure burning agony made it almost impossible for him to stay on his feet and he stumbled along, feet dragging along the rough forest floor. 

They were taken to the centre of the camp where the fires burned the brightest. Here, an area of forest floor had been cleared leaving a square of flattened earth that was unmistakably designed to be some sort of arena. Alistair stood to one side of it and beside him there was a man who might as well have been a troll. Having Sam tagging along behind him had always given Dean the mistaken impression that he knew what it meant to be a big guy, but this guy made Sam look small. He was tall and broad with a chest like an ale barrel and hands like cauldron lids. His ragged hair was crawling with lice and his face was made grotesque by an injury that had torn part of his lip off leaving his teeth exposed so that he grinned permanently. 

Dean knew exactly where this was going. It was just the question of whether it would be him facing up against him or Sam. Alistair stalked towards them. His dark eyes promised pain. They promised death. He peered into their faces, silently menacing as his men giggled.

“You don’t look so tough,” he spat. “Not so formidable up close. Without your little toys.”

Dean didn’t say anything though Sam shifted with visible anger at hearing his bow being described as a little toy.

“A bow is a coward’s weapon,” Alistair declared, to general shouts of approval from his men. “The only men that use bows are those too scared to go to the front line to fight. Sword to sword. With real men.”

“I’m not scared,” Dean said, coldly. 

Alistair smiled. “We’ll see if you still say that with his dagger buried in your gut,” he said, jerking his head towards the hulking creature who was pacing up and down at the opposite end of the arena, damaged lips spread into a mockery of a smile. 

“What do I get if he ends up with my dagger buried in his gut?” Dean asked.

Alistair’s smile took on its own nasty twist. “You get to take his place.”

“Fantastic,” Dean breathed. 

He turned his head ever so slightly so that he could catch Sam’s eye. Sam was worried, but not panicking. That gave Dean some strength. If his brother didn’t think he was automatically a dead man that was a good sign. Sam was, after all, the only one in the vicinity who’d ever seen him fight up close. On the other hand, he could look the troll in the eye so maybe he just didn’t have perspective. 

The men holding Dean released him and he was handed a short, poorly balanced sword along with a tiny rusty dagger with so many notches in its blade that it was probably half the size it should have been. Dean tucked the dagger into his belt before swishing the sword experimentally to get a feel for the blade and to wake up his aching wrists. It was a terrible sword. That was good. The only swords Dean had any real practice with were the practice swords handed to small boys when they were finally deemed ready to move on from wooden ones. Dean knew that he wasn’t going to win this battle with a sword, but he didn’t want them to know that. If he was going to win this battle it was going to be with the dagger tucked in his belt. He stepped forward to show he was ready.

The troll stepped forward too. He held a sword that was about twice the size of Dean’s and he swung it with a far more practiced hand. Dean just about had to time to think something inappropriate about the symbolism of the length of a man’s sword before the troll charged at him with a thundering cry so loud, Dean was sure the earth shook. He didn’t even try to parry the blow. He just dived out of the way. 

He had hoped that the troll’s size would make him slow and clumsy. The first attack had certainly been clumsy, but the troll spun around at top speed and Dean barely had time to regroup before the troll’s sword came for him again. This time Dean did parry. He raised his sword above his head and felt the full impact of the troll’s sword. It was like being hit with a sledgehammer and Dean was lucky that he had parried higher than he should have done because if he’d held the sword any closer to his head then his head would have been cut in half by his own sword. 

The troll pulled his sword back to go in for a killing blow. The pressure released from his own sword, Dean stabbed forward in a clumsy move that would probably only have given the troll a flesh wound if it had succeeded but forced the troll to step back anyway. On the offensive now, Dean attacked furiously, swinging his sword left and right with more rage than technique. It worked for a minute or two, but the troll soon tired of his antics and the next blow came in from far above Dean’s head and this time the pommel of the troll’s sword caught him on the side of the head, knocking him to the floor. 

For a second time, Dean had to fling himself out of the way of a killing blow. Dazed, with blood running down the side of his face he rolled away just in time to hear the sound of a sword hitting the floor next to his head. Dean swung his sword blindly in the troll’s direction and had the satisfaction of feeling the blade bite flesh and hearing a grunt of pain. It gave him the time to stagger to his feet and he turned to face the troll breathing harshly, but pleased to see blood trickling down the troll’s ankle.

With another bellow of rage, the troll charged at him. Dean dropped the sword, pulled the knife from his belt and, at the last possible second stepped to the side leaving his hand and the dagger in the troll’s path. The troll ran into the dagger, burying it deep in his own chest. Dean wasn’t naïve enough though to think that that would be the end of it and he dragged the knife out of the troll’s flesh. It took all his energy to do it, but it was hurting his opponent and that was all that he cared about. 

Screaming now, like a caged animal, the troll spun around, hacking at the space where Dean had stood. Rage made him clumsy and Dean was able to dodge the blows. Dancing around, he waited for another opening, darting in finally to drag the jagged dagger across the troll’s ample belly. Another roar and Dean’s hand was drenched in blood, but it still wasn’t over. As Dean pulled back again, the troll’s sword flashed and caught Dean’s forearm, opening it up and drenching Dean’s other arm in blood. 

Dean staggered back, gritted his teeth against the pain and lunged forward once again. It wasn’t easy to stab a man to death. It wasn’t easy to hurt an experienced fighting man so badly they’d collapse and stop coming for you. Dean knew this, but he was tiring and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep going especially not now that one of his arms was out of commission. He slashed and hacked and opened more wounds and fucked and dodged and parried. It seemed to Dean that he had been fighting forever and would be fighting forever. Then, finally, when Dean didn’t think he could lift his arm to stab any more, God smiled down on him. The troll stumbled. 

Dean couldn’t see what caused the fall. He wasn’t watching the man’s feet, but suddenly, instead of staring at the man’s barrel shaped chest, Dean found himself staring into the man’s eyes as he fell to his knees. Dean’s eyes locked onto the fleshy neck that was now exposed to him, he raised his hand one more time and drove the dagger through the troll’s neck. Blood gushed as he drew it out again and the biggest man Dean had ever seen fell dead at his feet.

It wasn’t over of course. Even before he had seen the man fall to the ground, Dean was diving for the sword that he had thrown aside. He caught it up, threw it to his brother and before anyone around them really knew what was happening, Dean had embedded his knife in the heart of a drunken spectator and the fight for their life really began.

It couldn’t have worked out better if they’d planned it. All the men were drunk, most of them weren’t wearing their weapons and quite a few of them weren’t willing to risk their lives in a fight they weren’t getting paid for no matter how much Alistair screamed at them. Sam and Dean hacked and slashed their way through the thinning ranks of drunken men. They fought their way, side by side to where Castiel was still tied to the tree. They cut his bonds and, despite his protests, succeeded in dragging him into the woods.  
They were pursued only half-heartedly and after half an hours struggle, Dean collapsed against a tree, breathing heavily, trying to collect his scattered wits. Castiel collapsed next to him, also struggling from the speed of their escape. Sam was the least affected and, unceremoniously, he yanked the sleeve of Dean’s tunic up to expose the gash on his arm before tearing a strip off the base of his own tunic to bind the wound with.

“We have to go back,” Castiel gasped as he tried to catch his breath.

“Are you crazy?” Dean demanded, wincing at Sam’s rough ministrations. “We just got out of there!”

“My bag,” Castiel insisted. “I need my bag.”

“He’s right Dean,” Sam said, tightening the bandage.

“What? Sam…”

“They still have our bows,” Sam said. He knew that appealing to Dean on the religious front would be of no use, but Dean’s weapon was his most precious possession and Sam knew that Dean would not leave it behind. 

Dean groaned and leant back against the tree breathing heavily. “I can’t. Not right now,” he said. He would never have admitted a weakness in front of anyone other than his brother but the weakness that was overwhelming him at that point declared that the injury to his arm was a serious one and it would haunt him.

Sam nodded. “I’ll go,” he said. “They won’t be expecting us to be back so soon. I can be in and out in ten minutes.”

“Take him with you,” Dean said, jerking his head in Castiel’s direction. “It’s his bag.” 

Then he leant back against the tree, closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain in his arm.

-

Castiel was not pleased to be sneaking back through the woods with Sam. From his position tied to the tree he had only been able to see some of what had been happening in the make shift arena but he had seen enough to turn his stomach. The violence of it had been horrifying. Whilst he had seen the aftermath of violence so far on this trip, the blood and the bodies, he hadn’t seen it dealt out so clinically before. He had always thought that when bodies turned up riddled with wounds it was because men who lived violently grew crazed to the point where they enjoyed the sensation of their blades penetrating flesh. Watching Dean sink his dagger into the enormous man’s body again and again and still have to fight on had been eye opening. Horrifying, but eye opening.

He had had his eyes opened again when Sam and Dean had fought themselves free. They had killed recklessly and no one who had stood in their way had lived, but they had not sought out conflict. Only those that approached them had felt the bite of their weapons. Again, Castiel had always assumed that men grew crazed and killed for pleasure.  
Sam and Dean didn’t seem to kill for pleasure. They killed in a business like, professional way. They killed in much the same way that back at home they slaughtered the animals and planted the crops. Mechanically. Just a part of life. These were the kind of men that Castiel had always viewed with a mixture of pity and contempt. It was starting to seem a little more complicated than that.

The final complication came from the fact that Castiel’s anger at what these men had done was still present: it still burned in his chest. So when he saw the men fall and die at Sam and Dean’s hands, the sadness he knew that he should have felt was diminished considerably. He felt they deserved the retribution. The violence. He was not saddened. That thought made him shudder. He needed desperately to spend some time with his thoughts and with his God, in prayer, to cleanse himself of the filthy emotions penetrating his mind.

Castiel followed Sam carefully. Despite his size, he moved almost silently through the trees and even though Castiel thought he was placing his feet exactly where Sam did, he seemed to be making far more noise. Occasionally, he stepped on a twig or a leaf and the sharp little noises that resulted made Sam wince.

As soon as they could see the glow of the fires in the distance, Sam paused and crouched behind a bush. He beckoned for Castiel to come closer. 

“We need to be in and out again before they even realise what’s happened,” Sam whispered. His breath was warm against Castiel’s face and he could smell sweat and blood mingled together with leather and steel and a whole host of odours that he never experienced. It was…odd. “We’ll loop round to the storage carts,” Sam was continuing. “There are less fire’s there and there’s less chance we’ll be seen. If anyone sees us we…” He hesitated and seemed to remember that Castiel was a monk and not like him. “If anyone sees us,” he repeated, “leave them to me. You just run.”

Castiel nodded tensely. They tiptoed through the trees. Castiel’s heart was hammering in his chest so hard that he was sure that it could be heard for miles around. The blood was pulsating through his head. It was like being drunk…but not altogether an unpleasant feeling. That worried Castiel. 

The supply carts where Castiel’s bag and Sam and Dean’s bows were stored were set back a little way from the fires. Castiel imagined that this was in part for practical reasons. It would definitely not help anyone if one were to be ignited by an errant ember. Sam lead them to the very edge of the shadows and stood behind a tree, surveying the situation. Castiel stood with him and looked too, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. Or waiting for. 

Many of the men had retired to bed. A small collection were engaged in pillaging the corpses of their fallen comrades which had been piled on the far edge of the camp. Alistair was nowhere to be seen.

“What…” Castiel started to ask but was instantly silenced when Sam’s hand clamped down across his mouth.

Sam pressed a finger to his lips and then in a voice so quiet that it might as well have been the wind whispering through the trees he spoke. “Someone will be on watch…” he breathed. 

Castiel wrinkled his brow sceptically but didn’t reply. He couldn’t see anyone on watch. To his mind someone on watch would be standing ominously peering into the darkness perhaps wrapped in a cloak…

He jumped when a figure emerged from the shadows to their left and strolled past mere two or three feet in front of them. The man was chewing on an apple and was whistling softly as he walked. Castiel was sure that they would be seen and his heart thumped even louder. He could feel sweat starting to sprout across his forehead and it was all he could do to stop himself snatching in loud panicked breaths. 

As the man disappeared round the corner of the wagon to continue his patrol, Sam slowly turned his head to face Castiel. There was a knowingly smug smirk on his face. He suddenly seemed much younger and reminded Castiel of the novice monks in their early days when they still struggled with obedience and were caught doing wrong. He couldn’t help smiling back even though he was still terrified. Then his terror spiked when it occurred to him that if that comparison was accurate, it meant that his life was in the hands of a novice monk. That was a horrifying thought indeed.

Sam allowed the man to pass them by a second time and then a third before he was satisfied that he understood how long the man took to make his ambling progress around the camp. As soon as the man was out of ear shot on that third occasion, Sam tapped Castiel on the shoulder, jerked his head towards the camp and stepped stealthily into the light. Castiel followed.

It was astonishingly easy. They stepped into the light, Castiel grabbed his bag from where it was perched on the back of a cart and Sam lifted their bows from where they lay on the ground just next to the same cart. He strung them and slung them over his shoulder for ease of transportation and they slid back into the darkness. 

As they snuck away, Castiel was even more tense than when they had arrived. He was sure that they were going to be chased down and he expected to feel a blade or arrow in his back at any moment, but it didn’t happen and soon, they made it back to where Dean was leaning against a tree and waiting for them.


	13. Recovery

It took Sam a minute or two to wake Dean and then they were off. They walked all through the night in tense silence. Castiel wanted to know where they were going, but didn’t like to ask. The youthfulness had disappeared from Sam’s face and both his companions now looked grimmer than they had when he had first seen them. Several times in that dark march Castiel contemplated whether or not he should just run away into the darkness. He wondered whether either Sam or Dean would care. He suspected they wouldn’t, but something still held him there. He wasn’t sure what.

With the first rays of morning light it became clear that there was something wrong with Dean. In the watery sunlight his skin had a waxy, pale quality to it that spoke of illness. His forehead was covered in a thin layer of sweat which spoke of fever and his walk was unsteady which said it was serious. 

Sam, Castiel noticed, was worried. He kept glancing at his brother’s face and uneasiness was written all over his own. After a little while, their eyes started to meet as they cast concerned glances at their third companion. Dean was resolutely oblivious to their concern. He just marched steadily on though his discomfort started to show. Eventually, Castiel couldn’t take it any longer. 

“I need to stop,” Castiel said, when they came to the edge of a narrow river. “I need to rest.”

He didn’t. He could have continued, but it wasn’t for his sake. From the way that Dean sank to the floor as soon as the words left Castiel’s mouth, he felt instantly vindicated.   
Sam knelt down by the river to refill their water skins whilst Dean just lay back, basking in the warming sun or so it would have seemed if his chest hadn’t been rising and falling rapidly and shallowly. 

“Is it your arm?” Castiel asked.

Sam glanced up sharply, dropped the water skin in the river, cursed and had to stretch out full length to reclaim it. 

Dean barely raised his head as he muttered an unconvincing, “I’m fine.”

“Show me your arm,” Castiel said. 

Sam stood up, slowly replacing the stopper in the last skin that he had filled, watching warily. 

Dean didn’t lift his head at all this time, but his tone was more insistent. “It’s fine,” he growled.

“Dean…” Sam started. “Is it bad?”

Dean pushed himself upright, wincing obviously as he used his arm to support himself. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled. “The guy sliced it right down the middle. Of course it’s bad.”

“How bad?” Sam persisted. 

Dean refused to answer, standing instead. “We’re moving on.”

“But…” Castiel persisted. 

“No arguments. We’re moving,” Dean snapped.

Castiel looked to Sam for help. Sam simply shrugged and started walking. Castiel had no choice but to follow. 

As the sun rose in the sky, Dean’s struggles became more apparent. He was sweating profusely and he walked more and more slowly, staggering occasionally to the extent that on one occasion Sam actually reached out to grab his arm but was shaken off aggressively.

Castiel had some experience in medicine. He was by no means an expert, but monks were the healers of the time, officially at least. There were countless skilled surgeons who learnt their trade on the battle field out of necessity and there were wise women who were often branded as witches for their use of herbs, but those who studied and researched and pooled their knowledge were the monks. Castiel had read all the current works on the subject and had watched his own expert healers work with interest so he knew what the signs of serious infections were and Dean was showing all of them. He was worried. 

Sam’s concern was turning slowly to frustration and anger. Instead of looking at his brother with love and worry in his eyes, he threw glances at him with a dark and stormy expression. When Dean stumbled again, hard enough that Sam had to grab his arm, Sam’s patience evaporated. 

“Stop doing this Dean. You’re going to kill yourself!”

“I’m fine,” Dean snapped. “I’m just a bit tired.”

“Ok, fine. Let’s stop and rest then. Get some sleep. Alistair’s men can’t have followed us this far.”

Dean couldn’t refute that logical argument, but did insist that they moved into the cover of some trees. Once there, Sam seemed inclined to let the matter rest, but Castiel knew that it was vital that if the arm was infected it be treated as soon as possible. So once Dean had settled down leaning up against the moss covered decaying carcass of a fallen tree, Castiel knelt in front of him.

“Let me see your arm,” he said.

Dean opened one eye and looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you care so much?” he demanded.

“Caring is my life’s work,” Castiel said with a simplicity he wasn’t sure Dean appreciated. “I am a monk after all. May I see your arm?”

“I don’t like monks,” Dean said.

“Why not?” Castiel replied. He had met men with little faith before. He had met men who viewed him with suspicion and distrust. He hadn’t often had them lying sick in front of him and had the opportunity to interrogate them on the matter.

“Biggest liars I’ve ever met,” Dean said with simplicity that Castiel wasn’t sure he appreciated. Particularly not in light of what he was trying to achieve.

With reluctance, Dean sat up and pushed back the tattered remnants of his tunic to display the dirty and stained strip of linen covering his forearm. The linen was damp with blood and darker stains that clearly did not bode well. Without asking for permission, Castiel reached forward and unwound the linen to display what lay beneath.

What lay beneath was horrifying. The wound ran from just above Dean’s wrist to just below his elbow. It was fairly deep but that wasn’t what was concerning. The skin had swelled and was now a puffy red to the point where the edges of the wound were puckered and curling away from each other. Foul smelling pus was already seeping out from it and the redness was expanding out from the wound. Castiel didn’t know what all of these things signified but he knew that it didn’t signify anything good.

“My God…” Sam whispered, having walked over to look. The expression seemed to be sincere and Castiel bit back the automatic retort about blasphemy. “Dean, why didn’t you say something?”

“It’s going to kill me,” Dean said tensely. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

Sam didn’t respond and Castiel could see that he saw truth in those words. There was a devastation and desolation in his expression that spoke of how dear the brother’s relationship was. He could see, in the seconds that passed, that Sam was playing out a life without his brother in it and that the picture was bleak. It touched Castiel. He knew a little something about loss and he saw loss here now. 

He glanced back at the wound. It certainly was deadly. He’d seen wounds like that that killed people in a matter of hours. He’d also seen a wise woman cure a man similarly wounded with nothing but a few herbs. At the time, he had dismissed it as witchcraft and had squashed his doubts about the truth of that with prayer. Now, something in him had the strange urge to try and use that knowledge to help this man.

Why this man would inspire that in him Castiel had no idea. He looked at him to see if there was any kind of inspiration available but he saw nothing more than he had already seen. A rough man of violence like so many that Castiel had seen before and avoided. Uneducated, unwashed, ungodly. Lacking in all the things that Castiel had made it his business to cultivate in himself and others. There were only really two things that recommended him to Castiel. The first was the obvious devotion that his brother had to him. Castiel had always thought that the best measure of the man was the devotion that others felt for him. The second thing to recommend him was the fact that despite the rough life that he had lead, his eyes retained a hard sort of kindness and when he relaxed there was a mildness to his rugged features that proclaimed him to be, at heart, a much softer man than life had forced him to be.

Or at least that was the justification that Castiel was using on this occasion. 

“Give me your water,” Castiel commanded, reaching a hand out to Sam who was still standing, staring aghast at the wound. 

“What? Why?” Sam asked, surprised.

“We have to wash the wound of course,” Castiel said.

“There’s no point,” Dean ground out through clenched teeth. “I’m going to die. Let’s not make it any more painful than it already is.”

“We can treat it,” Castiel said.

Dean scoffed and then, sat up abruptly. “You’re not cutting my arm off!”

“That wasn’t my plan,” Castiel said calmly. Sam had handed him the water skin now and he uncorked it. “I’ll need some herbs,” Castiel continued, pouring the water over his hands to clean off the worst of the dirt that had accumulated there. A one eyed surgeon had once told him that hands should be clean before ever touching anything that should be inside the body and it had seemed to make sense. “Sam, you’ll look for me?”

Sam nodded and Castiel described briefly, what he could remember about the herbs that the woman had used. Sam nodded again and disappeared into the woods.   
Left alone with Dean, Castiel felt a lot less confident. Despite all that had passed through his mind just moments previously, he suddenly remembered that for a large part of his acquaintance with the man he had been killing people. If Dean were so inclined, he could kill Castiel in seconds and probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid about it. Sam’s desire to keep his brother alive had felt like a shield. Now, there was nothing to stop Dean from stopping Castiel.  
He tried not to think about that as he poured water over the wound. Dean winced. 

“Christ Cas…” he said, jerking his arm back. 

“I have to get the wound clean,” Castiel replied, this time having to ignore the blasphemy and the unprecedented abbreviation of his name. “I’m sorry. It will hurt.”

Dean grunted, but extended his arm again. Castiel bathed it in water before getting a strip of clean linen and using it to wipe the pus out of the wound. Resolved to the fact that it would hurt, Dean made no further complaint but his face expressed very clearly that he was in agony. Castiel tried to ignore his expression. He didn’t like the idea that he was hurting someone. 

Sam was a long time in coming back. Castiel soaked some linen in cool water and placed it on the wound to try and ease the discomfort a little bit at least. Then he started to build up a fire so that when Sam returned he could cook up the required paste. Dean watched him with a feverish, detached disinterest. 

“Where did you learn to do this?” he asked, eventually. “Is it a monk thing?”

Castiel almost laughed. “No,” he admitted. “It’s not a monk think. I saw a wise woman do it once.”

“A wise woman?” Dean said shrewdly. “Would the church approve?”

“The church doesn’t approve of a lot of things,” was Castiel’s evasive response. 

Dean chuckled. “How many of the other things that the church disapproves of do you take part in?” he asked. “Drink? Women?” 

Castiel flushed. “Neither,” he said. 

Dean laughed and then choked on his laughter, falling into weak sickly coughs instead. Castiel felt quite strongly that he deserved it for his jibe, but then relented and offered Dean some water instead. 

Sam came back with a slightly harried and apologetic expression on his face.

“I couldn’t find some of the things…I’ve looked everywhere,” he said, extending a clump of herbs to Castiel that vaguely resembled what the wise woman had used. Though, it was hard to say. It had been a long time since Castiel had seen it done and he hadn’t been paying particular attention then.

Hoping that it would be good enough and he wasn’t simply providing false hope, Castiel ground the weeds as best he could with a rock before steeping them in water for a brief period. The resulting mush looked serviceable enough, but Castiel well knew that plants could be as deadly as they could be helpful and he could just as well be speeding Dean’s passing as preventing it. Of course, without his intervention the passing would be inevitable so he hoped that Sam wouldn’t hold it against him. 

Carefully, as he had seen the woman do all those years ago, he smeared the mixture into the wound as evenly as possible. Then, using the clean damp linen strips he bound the wound up tightly. 

“Now what?” Dean asked.

“We wait,” Castiel replied. “We wait and see if it does any good.”

Dean huffed. “Well I’m gonna sleep it off,” he said and, tucking his arm against his chest, he rolled himself into his cloak and suited the action to the word.

Sam looked at Castiel and Castiel stared back.

“I don’t promise anything with this,” he began. “I am not a healer. That was not my calling.”

Sam nodded. “I know that,” he said and Castiel wasn’t sure if he was acknowledging the lack of promise or the lack of skill. “But I’ll try anything if it means not just sitting and watching him die.”

“Don’t be so emotional,” Dean mumbled sleepily. “Get some sleep.”

Sam laughed, though there was no real joy in the sound and followed his brother’s advice leaving Castiel sitting by a dying campfire and debating again whether or not he should just get up and continue on his quest alone, but he decided that he rather liked having company and to have two men who knew how to handle themselves around was an advantage. Particularly two who had no interest what so ever in what he carried. Castiel followed the example of his companions and lay down to sleep. 

-

They woke at much the same time several hours later as dusk was deepening. A bird, startled by something, screeched through the air nearby and all three of them jerked awake. The first thing that Castiel did was unwrap the bandages on Dean’s arm and assess the wound. He laughed and praised God out loud when he saw the results of his attentions. By no means cured, the wound did look significantly better. No new puss had formed and the swelling had decreased by almost half. When, throwing caution to the wind, Castiel placed his hand to Dean’s forehead to assess his fever, he found that it had broken.

“We must rejoice and thank the lord,” Castiel said properly. “He has delivered you to us. With his hand on us you have been spared.”

Dean snorted. “You mean with your hand on me,” he said.

“God worked through me. Thanks be to God,” Castiel replied solemnly.

Dean scoffed again. “Thanks be to Cas and thanks be to the wise woman.”

Castiel sighed. A spiritual recovery, he thought, might be a little further off.


End file.
